The Hideaway
by Anguis Intrepidus
Summary: When Draco Malfoy is made privy to information of a terrorist plot amongst his former classmates, he is abruptly pulled from his life at Malfoy Manor and put into Witness Protection. He must now, for the indefinite future, live in hiding as a Muggle with the one person he'd desperately hoped wouldn't get involved. M for foul language and graphic content.
1. 1 - The Plot

**_Hello, friends. Yes, this is the Dramione I've been promising. Lucky you. Fair warning, there is plenty of foul language and lots of - uh, graphic content. I'll try to keep it to a minimum, but I don't think this story is going to turn out anything like what I first planned. _  
_I am also currently working on three other stories at the moment, only one of which is fan fiction. If the updates to this are slow, it's because Real Life and Tom Riddle are getting in the way. _  
**

**_Anyway, read, review (PLEASE!), and tell me what you think of what I've got here.  
_**

**_DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. . .well, I own chocolate, but I'm not getting paid for that. And I promise I'm not taking over JKR's territory. I just gambol on it. . . .like a bunny. A sabre-toothed bunny.  
_**

**Chapter 1 - The Plot  
**

Hermione Granger was a lot of things: Activist, realist, witch, barrister, columnist, Potions Mistress, and best friend to the Boy Who Lived Twice. What she was not, however, was happy. No.

Hermione Granger was royally pissed off.

She'd hoped that lunch and a coffee would help in her bid to rethink the entire situation, but so far nothing had worked. Even the Calming Draught she'd begged off the now-Ginny Potter wasn't having much of an effect. It had worked for about ten minutes, but she reasoned that was because, in those ten minutes, no one had mentioned the reason a migraine was building between her temples.

_He_ was to blame. That barrel-chested, gorilla-armed, red-headed tosser, known by many a wizard as Ronald Weasley. At the moment, Hermione was exceedingly angry. Yes, she was always mad at him for one reason or another, but this was the icing on a week-long cake, the ingredients consisting of tomfoolery in the Department of Mysteries, wrecking a very expensive project being undertaken by the Unspeakables, trying to cover it up, blaming the Unspeakables when the cover-up plot failed, and last, but most _certainly_ not least, pleading with the one and only Harry Potter – whose very name could get a person off murder charges – to make a case for him that wouldn't result in being kicked off the Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had almost agreed to do it, which bothered Hermione just a little bit, but not nearly as much as the thought that Ron would actually try to make use of his best friend's name.

"How could he?" she muttered under her breath. "How the hell could he?"

It set her thinking. Ron was usually the one behind Hermione's temper, but even he wasn't the type to just go cashing in on his best friend's name. For a brief moment Hermione wondered if he'd been Confunded or Imperio'd while down there with the Unspeakables, but she shook away the thought almost as soon as it entered her head. Who would Imperio Ron? Yes, he had access to Harry, but it had been a good nine years since the Battle of Hogwarts. There weren't that many Death Eaters still roaming around, and certainly not dangerous ones.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in thought. There _might_ be no one else about who cared about getting revenge on Harry; that was what the Malfoys had said. There _might_ be no one else. But there could be. Hermione abruptly stopped in the hall, shaking her head sharply.

Had she become paranoid?

She looked about her, eyeing the walls of the Ministry complex thoughtfully. It wouldn't be impossible, she rationalized. There was a reason they had called him _Mad_-Eye Moody. Hermione huffed and resumed the brisk walk to her office on the fourth floor. This was ridiculous; she wasn't going mad, and there wasn't a lingering Death Eater plot to kill Harry. They'd have found out by now. . .one would hope.

She took the last flight of stairs, preferring the exercise to the jerky motions of the Ministry lifts. Deep in thought, Hermione almost missed it when a portly body came barreling down the stairs at a speed that almost knocked her over. There was a bright flash of light, and the figure was thrust past Hermione, and into the wall opposite her, crumpling into a heap at her feet.

_Well, that escalated quickly._

She bent down to examine the face belonging to the outsized figure, and nearly leapt back in alarm. She hadn't anticipated seeing him. Well, maybe at some sort of obscure Ministry function; he was an Unspeakable, it would only make sense to see him there. Not here, though, not up on this level. Hermione turned back to see a man standing at the top of the stairs, his robes identifying him as an Auror.

"Sorry about that, miss," he said, keeping his wand ready.

Hermione frowned. "I'm sure you had a valid reason."

"Fugitive," the Auror said. "Auror Potter told us to keep an eye on him; he might have some useful information, Potter said."

"Information about what?"

"I'm afraid that's classified, miss," said the Auror simply, coming down the stairs. "At least, it would be if I knew. But I don't."

Hermione nodded. "Okay. But why is he here? Shouldn't you be on the MLE level?"

The Auror shrugged. "He spoke to Potter, said he wanted a barrister. Potter asked who, and he said you, miss."

"Me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why me?"

The Auror shrugged again. "I dunno," he repeated.

Hermione huffed. She _so_ did _not_ need this today. There was enough on her plate trying to keep Ron out of jail without resorting to using War Hero status (though it would probably come to that anyway), but adding another Unspeakable to the mix was hardly going to make things better. Still, he had permission from Harry, which meant it was important. Harry was still her best friend and naturally kept fully abreast of everything on her plate – one of the hazards of being friends with Hermione Granger – and never in his life would he consider asking her to take time away from one case for another, not if it weren't absolutely vital.

Hermione looked down at the unconscious form. "Right. Well, let's get him into my office, Auror – "

"Arthur Stein," he said, holding out a hand.

Hermione shook it absently, mind on the case in front of her. "Right. Auror Stein. In my office, we'll wake him up and see what he has to say – if anything." She understood Harry's concern, but _now_?

The Auror simply grunted and lifted the unconscious man with a Mobilicorpus, floating him along up the stairs and towards Hermione's office. She juggled her keys and her bag, trying to find the right one. It was a distinctly Muggle practice, and her co-workers didn't understand, but, for whatever reason, it made Hermione feel sane and safe. Safer than just warding. Inside, they positioned him in a chair, bound him, and Hermione set about making tea. It was best to have something calming for the fellow, particularly if he was so jumpy he'd tried to run before she'd even got there. When the drink was prepared, she nodded to the Auror, and he performed the Ennervate. The pudgy man's eyes flew open, and he began to panic.

"Sam," Hermione said soothingly, leaned against her desk, arms crossed. "Sam, look at me."

Sam didn't appear to have heard her. Sweat formed on his temples, his breathing became erratic, and Hermione could swear she heard a terrified whimper.

"Sam Baristwyth!" she said sharply.

He snapped to attention. His graying hair was damp, and his slight double chin waggled as he trembled. "Granger," he moaned. "Granger. Granger, they're going to kill me!"

"No one is going to kill you, Sam," Hermione said gently, putting her hands over his. "No one is going to get to you. Not here. Tell me what's wrong."

He recommenced hyperventilating, looking about Hermione's office, as though it were trying to eat him alive. "I – I – I overheard them," he finally managed to say, his voice taking on the quality of a man who had heard terrifying things. "Granger, I heard them say they'd do it."

"Heard who say what, Sam," she said. "You have to tell me."

"Weasley heard it, too," Sam said in a stronger voice. "Weasley heard them, that's why the project was destroyed. They wanted it to look like he'd done it, to get him sacked and on his own. We're an easier bunch to pick off that way, you know."

Something twisted in Hermione's gut, and she was suddenly no longer angry at Ron. "Sam, _who_? _Who did you hear, Sam_?"

Sam closed his eyes and recited: "Pansy Parkinson, Kevin Didalgo, Mary Rutsin, and Edmund Zabini. All of them Unspeakables."

"What did you hear them say, Sam?" Hermione prodded.

He shook his head, tears of fear forming at the corners of his eyes. "They're going to kill me. If I tell you, they'll kill me. I told Potter, but Potter said he'd have to cross-examine them, _but you can't because they'll kill me_."

Hermione released the ropes holding Sam in place, and thrust a cup of tea into his hand. "Drink this, Sam, you'll feel better." If the Calming Draught was strong enough. She waited for him to take a few timid sips, formulating a plan to proceed in her mind. An idea presented itself, and she latched on. Kneeling in front of him, Hermione took his free hand in her own and said, "Sam, no one is going to get you."

He nodded, pained. "Oh, but they will, Granger. They will."

"That's not possible, Sam," she soothed. "You're the most powerful Unspeakable down there, and you're a pat wizard to boot. They wouldn't be brave enough to try."

Sam sat forward, his hazel eyes tearing again. "Granger, you have to believe me."

"I do believe you, Sam," she'd said. "I believe you whole-heartedly."

He slumped forward, the shattered breaths indicating that he was, if not crying, at least prepared to. Hermione leaned back against her desk, thinking hard. Parkinson, Didalgo, Rutsin, and Zabini. Only two surnames did she recognize, and only one person had she been with at school. This meant that the others were either much older or much younger. Hermione was betting on the latter. Perhaps a visit to the Zabinis was in order, though exactly what she was going to ask Blaise Zabini, Hermione wasn't sure. Her attention was drawn back to Sam when he lifted his head.

"I'll tell you, Granger, but I need protection."

"You tell me what it is," she said, "and I'll speak to Harry."

He leaned forward; the Calming Draught was clearly working. "I think they're taking orders from another, but I heard Parkinson, Zabini, Didalgo, and Rutsin discussing rather detailed plans for a terrorist plot on the Ministry."

Hermione's heart sank. She hated terrorist plots, not only because of the hundreds of people they tended to hurt in one form or another, but it was almost impossible to pinpoint where they originated and who was doing the dealing. "_Our_ Ministry, Sam?"

He nodded. "That wasn't all, though."

Shit. "There's more to it?"

"Palace of Westminster," Sam said shakily.

Hermione sank to her knees. "_Palace of Westminster_?" Two governments at the same time. Clearly somebody with plenty of brains and money was behind this. "They're planning to cripple the whole country."

Sam nodded. "They have to be working on orders," he whispered. "Granger, they have to be. They may be Unspeakables, but Parkinson's a twit, Didalgo and Rutsin wouldn't do it otherwise, and Zabini. . .he'd be in it for the fame."

Hermione nodded, thinking. How many people did she know of with the brains, money, and balls to try something like this? Purebloods may still be Purebloods, but a good number of them had learnt their lesson after the Third Wizarding War. Could it be someone on the Continent? They had been quiet since the end of the First War in 1945; when Grindelwald fell, those backing him had lost everything, just as those supporting Voldemort had.

"Granger, what do we do?"

Hermione sighed. "We find out who's supporting this plot financially, and we get them to tell us what's going on. It could be any terrorist group in the world, or it could be a rising Dark Lord. We'll have to pull some strings and ask around. In the meantime, Sam," she said, taking his hands, "I'm going to speak to Harry, and see if we can't get you protection. Is there anyone else who overheard the plot? Anyone besides you and Ron?"

He nodded. "Astoria Mult. Find her, Granger. She's a sweet girl, and they'll want her dead so she doesn't talk."

Hermione nodded. "We'll find her, Sam. You just stay here. I'll go speak to Harry."

"Be careful, Granger," he whimpered.

"I'm always careful, Sam," she reassured him. She nodded once to Stein, and then slipped out of her office. _Harry. Have to find Harry._

She took the lift; there wasn't enough time afforded her to go about on foot. There were ups and downs as it made its way to Harry Potter's office, and lots of people kept getting on and getting off, to the point that Hermione nearly flipped her lid. _Why_ wouldn't this infernal contraption take her to the Auror Offices first! It wasn't like it was a long way away. When the lift was finally empty of everyone but her, it took off in a diagonal direction, whispering through the Ministry conduits. Except that when the doors to the lift opened, she was looking into the Ministry Foyer and found herself face to face with a Harry who looked nervous and angry all at the same time.

_Not where I was planning to go, but this works as well._

"Hermione!"

"Harry! I was just coming to find you."

"Where is he?"

"Sam?"

"Yes! Sam! Where is he?"

"My office."

"You didn't leave him alone, did you!"

"One of your Aurors was with him."

Harry had squeezed into the lift with three other Aurors, but double-took at his best friend. "Who?"

"Arthur Stein?" She frowned. "Harry. . . ."

"Hermione, there is no Arthur Stein in my department." His face blanched.

"Shit!" Hermione slammed the doors and punched the button, blood draining from her face. "I should have known!"

"How could you know?!" Harry retorted. "It's not like you spend loads of time on MLE level."

"Sam was trying to get away, Harry! He nearly ran into me when I was going up the stairs! _He_ probably knew who it was, and he made a run for it. Stein stunned him, Harry! And I'll bet you anything he Confunded him as well when my back was turned!" She punched the side of the lift. "Dammit! What was I thinking?! I should have told _him_ to leave and come get you!" She punched the wall a few more times, just to let the universe know how she felt about the situation.

It seemed to take less time to get back to her office floor than it had to get to the Ministry Foyer; it helped that they weren't forced to stop and pick up anyone else. The lift ground to a halt on her level, and Hermione and the four Aurors practically fell through the doors and bolted up the stairs, wands out. In the back of her mind Hermione knew it was a useless endeavor. When they opened the door, there was Sam, still in the chair, eyes staring lifelessly at the wall behind Hermione's desk.

"SHIT!" Harry bellowed. "SHIT SHIT SHIT!"

That just about covered it, Hermione thought. As she'd predicted, Stein was gone; he'd have to clean up the whole mess, not just the part concerning Sam. There was someone else, Sam had said. Someone else in danger. "Ron," she said suddenly.

Harry whirled to look at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Ron's in danger as well, Harry, and Astoria Mult."

"Who's Astoria Mult?"

"I don't know!" she cried angrily. "Leave Sam; we'll send someone else up to get him. Ron and Mult, Harry!"

Harry quickly barked out orders to his men, and they disappeared. For the millionth time in her career, Hermione cursed the inability to simply Apparate around the Ministry. A thought occurred to her, and she felt her heart thud even faster. Panicking, she searched through her desk, tearing out drawers and flipping through files feverishly.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"I want to know if the fake Auror took anything," Hermione retorted angrily. "I'll be fine, Harry; get Ron!"

Harry sent a Patronus instead. "I'm _not_ leaving you alone," he said shortly. "Did Sam tell you everything?"

"The plot to destroy the Ministry _and_ the Palace of Westminster?!" replied Hermione. "Yes, he told me!"

"And he was killed for his pains," said Harry. "As will Mult, and likely Ron, if we don't get to them first. I am _not_ leaving you alone, Hermione."

She huffed. "Fine." She closed the drawers and tore open a closet, rifling through the shelves. "That bastard!" she screeched. "I hope your Aurors find them, soon Harry. I think Stein's a Hit-wizard."

"What's wrong?" he blurted. "Is something missing? What d'you mean, Hit-wizard?"

"My lexicon!"

Harry frowned. "Lexicon?"

Hermione sighed. "The pamphlet every barrister and department head gets. For the heads, it's got the information of everyone in their department, and for the barristers it lists all the information for _all_ Ministry Employees. And it's gone. My lexicon is gone; it's not here. It's always here, but it's now it's not, and I never use it, because it's an invasion of privacy, so I kept it _there_, but now it's not, it's gone, it's gone, and I'll bet you that Hit-wizard has it!"

"Breathe, Hermione!" Harry said. "We'll find Ron and Astoria Mult. Get your things, okay? Come on."

Hermione hesitated, sparing one last look at Sam's dead body, before snatching up her coat and bag. She waved her wand, and everything was back to the way it should be. She took the extra step of warding all her drawers, and anything that might be important. Stein wouldn't be back now that he had the lexicon, but just in case someone else had any ideas. . .Hermione wasn't interested in taking chances. She nodded to Harry as she clicked the door, and they made their way to the end of the hall for the lift. As the doors were about to click shut, the silvery form of a terrier came bounding up the them: Ron's Patronus, Hermione realized.

"I'm safe," the terrier said in his voice. "Richard and the other guys found me, Harry. I'm at the Burrow with the family; I'm okay."

The two of them breathed a sigh of relief, and Hermione slumped against the wall. "Good thing Richard's there, then," said Harry.

"And even if they try anything," Hermione affirmed, "I'm sure between Ginny and Mrs. Weasley alone, Ron would be quite all right."

Harry managed a weak chuckle. "We should have thought to send them a Patronus first," he said wryly. The chuckle faded as silver panda barreled towards them. "No," Harry whispered. "Patrick never sends a Patronus unless – " His voice was cut off by Patrick's:

"Astoria Mult is dead," it said. "We were summoned to Knockturn Alley when they found her body." Hermione closed her eyes, and willed herself not to feel a failure. "It seems there was a struggle. Draco Malfoy has been severely wounded, but he's still alive. We're en route to St. Mungo's now."


	2. 2 - A Thickening Agent

**_DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. I'm just gamboling on JKR's turf like the sabre-toothed bunny I am._  
**

**Chapter 2 - A Thickening Agent  
**

Hermione stared at the spot where the Patronus had disappeared for several long seconds, and then said, "Draco Malfoy."

"So it seems," said Harry, his face cloudy. "Why was Malfoy there?"

Hermione made a gesture that she hoped would convey her confusion. "I know we need to get to St. Mungo's, but that's about it, Harry." She closed the doors and punched the button. "Malfoy might know something."

"What's he going to tell us?" Harry challenged.

"I don't know. Think about it, Harry. Mult was with Malfoy when Stein found her. What else might she have been doing, if not speaking to him? He and Parkinson have a past, remember."

"I do remember, but mightn't they just as well have been seeing each other?" Harry countered.

"He's meant to be marrying Astoria Greengrass next summer, Harry," said Hermione. "He's not going to jeopardize that union _before_ it's good and settled. Mult must have thought Malfoy was in on it."

"And why wouldn't he be?"

"Why would Stein try to kill Malfoy if he were part of the plot?"

"Maybe he was kept in the dark on that information."

"But why wouldn't Malfoy just kill him as soon as he'd killed Mult?" pressed Hermione. "He had the perfect opportunity, and they'd have found Stein's body. No, I don't think Malfoy comes into it at all, and if he does, at best it's because Astoria Mult went to him for clarification. She was probably thinking along the same lines that you are, Harry. She likely thought he'd know, and went to corner him about it."

"We don't know that for sure, Hermione," said Harry doubtfully.

"We don't know for sure that he's involved, either," she insisted. "Innocent until proven guilty, Harry."

Harry muttered something under his breath that Hermione felt sure was a condemnation because "his surname was Malfoy, and really, after everything we've been through with him, it's only a logical conclusion."

She didn't respond. There wasn't really a response to give. They could only talk to Malfoy and see what he had to say before they arrested him. If there was one thing Hermione hoped Harry understood, it was what it meant to imprison a man innocent of committing a crime. Their political party was currently trying to push through by-laws that made the wizarding world an easier place to inhabit, and the one thing standing in their way was Malfoy money; the very _last_ thing Hermione's party needed was to piss off the Malfoy family enough that the law never made it off the floor. Putting Draco Malfoy in prison without knowing for certain what he'd been up to would certainly do just that.

Once out the doors of the Ministry, and beyond the confines of the anti-Apparition wards, Harry and Hermione turned into a desolate alley and Apparated away. Landing across the street from St. Mungo's, Hermione took a moment to breathe in and straighten her clothes. She wasn't _as_ angry with Ron anymore, but her temper was still frayed and it wouldn't do her any good to slap Malfoy again if he was making irritable retorts about her state of dress. She looked to Harry, whose jaw was visibly clenching and unclenching, and linked her hand to the crook of his arm. No doubt he was debating whether or not to be surly or forcedly polite.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"It'll be fine."

"I know," he said. "As long as he doesn't get snarky."

"It's Malfoy; I don't think he's capable of _not_ being snarky."

"Maybe being half-dead will change that."

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens, don't be a prat."

He looked at her, frowning. "I'm not a prat."

"You are sometimes."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

He was quiet a moment. "Really?"

"Don't be a prat to Malfoy, and if he does something we don't like, you can always arrest him for heckling an Auror. Just don't you cast the first stone, all right?"

"I'm never a prat to Malfoy."

"Harry," she said, pulling him along so they could cross the street, "you and Malfoy have been prats to each other since first year. Technically since before first year, but never mind that."

"Guess who started it?" Harry stated petulantly. "I'll give you a hint: He's Pureblood, got loads of money, and everyone treats him like a god."

"You know," Hermione said thoughtfully as they entered the foyer, "in the world of politics he's at least a demi-god. He's yet to prove he's Lucius Malfoy, but he's doing a bang-up job, so far."

"It's because his surname is Malfoy," griped Harry, "and he'll go whinging to his father to fix everything if it doesn't go his way."

Hermione stopped a few feet from the receptionist's desk, a small frown on her face. "Harry, Lucius Malfoy has been locked in Azkaban for five years. Exactly what are you expecting Draco to complain about to him?"

"He's only serving fifteen years, Hermione."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and given the state of Azkaban, it's not likely he'll last that long, is it, Harry?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Fine. Let's just talk to the git and be gone, can we?"

Hermione eyed Harry a moment longer, patted his shoulder, and then approached the girl at the counter. "Mr. Draco Malfoy?" she said.

"Are you family?" the girl drawled boredly without looking up.

"No," said Hermione, feeling more than a little irritated at being brushed off as unimportant. "We're from the Ministry. Auror Potter and Hermione Granger."

The girl looked up sharply, as though suddenly aware that a lackluster attitude was probably not going to do her any favours. "_You're_ here to see _Draco_ _Malfoy_?" she repeated, as though unable to fully comprehend that simple fact.

"Yes," said Hermione as politely as possible. "Have you any information on his status?"

The girl shook her head rapidly. "No. You'll have to get that from the Healer-in-charge. That's Broderick Clifton; tall, sort of stringy, orange hair."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you." Since Harry didn't look keen on going anywhere, she took his arm and pulled him along. "Be nice," she whispered, sure that the receptionist heard her anyway. "He's in hospital, Harry. He's hardly going to start jinxing _you_."

Harry muttered something under his breath about hoping Hermione was right, and didn't object too much to being pulled into the lift. It was when they reached the fourth floor that he put up the real fight. When Hermione hissed that he was acting childish, Harry puffed out his chest and exited the lift on his own, looking about for a someone he could identify as Healer Clifton, as though daring Hermione to repeat the sentiment. She refrained, tempting as it was.

Healer Clifton was just stepping out of a room when they finally found him. It wasn't Draco Malfoy's room, and he didn't look particularly pleased when Harry and Hermione said they needed to speak with him.

"Why?"

"It's Ministry business," said Harry stubbornly.

"Yes, but he is also my patient, and he is under great stress at the moment; you will understand, Auror Potter, if I refuse."

Hermione wondered, quite briefly, if the vein in Harry's neck was about to explode. "Healer, I realize you've got a job to do, and I'm not asking you to play nanny, I just need – "

"But you see, Auror Potter, I _would_ have to play nanny. Your history with Mr. Malfoy precedes you, and given the terms on which you were last known to have spoken" Hermione cringed, "I cannot, under good conscience, allow you in to see my patient."

"Healer Clifton, what if _I_ spoke to Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione interjected.

He stared at her. "What exactly are you expecting to gain, Miss Granger? No offense, ma'am, but you _are_ Muggleborn." Harry muttered something under his breath about "another supremacist prick," at which Clifton looked morbidly offended. "I'll have you know, Mr. Potter," he hissed, "that _my wife_ is a Muggleborn witch. My sole concern lies in the fact that Mr. Malfoy does not have an altogether clean slate as far as treating Muggleborns fairly."

Hermione bit back a sigh: The Healer had a point. "I can handle whatever Malfoy throws at me, Healer Clifton," she assured him. "Please, this interview is important; it's a matter of national security, and we wouldn't be here, honestly, if Malfoy's help weren't absolutely essential."

Clifton seemed to vacillate. "Fine," he finally said. "But you have to be quick, and if there's any sign of distress, you _must_ summon me immediately."

Hermione nodded. "I understand."

"And your Auror friend is _not_ to be in the same room with Mr. Malfoy," Clifton declared firmly. "War hero or not, I will toss you out of my ward if you cause my patient trouble."

Yes, fine, whatever; could they please just get to Malfoy already? "I understand, sir," she said. "Harry won't go anywhere near the door, will you, Harry?"

He snorted. "As if I'd want to."

Hermione sighed and looked back to the Healer. "That's as good as it's going to get, I'm afraid."

He scowled at Harry another long moment, and motioned for them to follow him down the hall. They turned a few corners, went up a small flight of stairs, and down to the end of another hallway. At the last door on the right, Clifton stopped and put in a key. Two other Aurors stood on either side of the door; they saluted Harry and nodded politely to Hermione. She acknowledged them, waiting for Clifton to unlock the door. Harry took up a post on the opposite wall, arms crossed, gaze locked on the door.

"Carefully now, Miss Granger," said Clifton. "Do be careful, please. His injuries are most extensive."

He let Hermione in, propping open the door so the Aurors could watch as he checked Malfoy's vitals. Hermione felt relieved that this was a man who wasn't at all put off by another person's job, and had no qualms about bluntly telling the Head Auror, "Hell no." The world would be a much easier place to live if other professionals behaved in the same way.

"I'll wake him up," Clifton said softly. "I don't know how long he'll manage staying awake; if he starts to drift off, just let him go. He needs as much rest as he can get." Hermione nodded, trying not to look too closely at Draco Malfoy's heavily bandaged body. "We'll be in to change the dressings once you've finished." He waved his wand, eliciting a small moan from the man in the bed, nodded once, apparently satisfied that nothing was amiss, and stowed his wand away. "At your leisure, Miss Granger."

And then Clifton left the room, and Hermione was forced to look at Draco Malfoy's broken body. She sat down on a small chair next to the bed, folding her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for the blonde Slytherin to come to full consciousness. When he saw her, he stared, blinked, and then opened his mouth.

"Granger?" he croaked.

"Hiya, Malfoy," she returned.

He seemed momentarily befuddled, then amused. "I expected Potter." His voice was dry and scratchy.

"Clifton wouldn't let him in to see you."

"Figures," he said, his voice pitching. "If it's not too much to ask. . . ." he began, and then his voice trailed off.

"Care for some water, Malfoy?" Hermione said softly.

"Please," he whispered.

She procured the desired liquid, helping him tip the cup just so; she didn't need him choking and spluttering during this conversation. "Better?"

"Much," he said, his voice a little clearer, but still weak. He leaned back against the pillows, struggling to sit up. "This damned bed is charmed, I swear."

"Maybe it's best if you stay lying down," Hermione said. "Give your body a chance to recover."

She half-expected him to argue; Malfoy always argued. This time he didn't. He just obediently sank back onto the fluff, taking a deep breath. "Where's Potter?"

"Just outside," said Hermione softly.

"In case I attack you. . .again?" His voice was wry.

"He knows you didn't attack me last time," Hermione said dryly. "He knows, and you know it."

Malfoy snorted. "He only knows if you told him; I certainly didn't."

"Harry is much more intuitive about his friends than you give him credit for, Malfoy."

"Then he'll know I didn't off Astoria Mult," he deadpanned.

"I said he's intuitive about his _friends_, Malfoy. I think he's kind of hoping you did it."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Of course he is."

"I told him not to be a prat."

"Oh, that helps, I'm sure, Granger."

"It would help if you didn't give him reason to act like one."

"It's not my fault he was born with a sense of self-righteous – "

"I'm not saying anyone's at fault," she interrupted. "I'm just saying, it would benefit the world – and by that I mean _me_ – if one of you two would extend the olive branch."

"He'd take it and spit in my face," Malfoy retorted.

"You _could_ work with me on this," Hermione said with a huff.

Malfoy grinned. "I could. But you look pretty when you're irritated, Granger."

She blushed. "Don't let's get off track," she said.

"Right," he sighed. "Right. Astoria Mult."

"What happened, Malfoy?"

He shrugged as much as he could for lying down. "I've no idea, Granger. She asked to meet me at an out-of-the-way place in Knockturn Alley; said it was urgent. I thought, because she was an Unspeakable, I probably ought to go. It could be anything. I got there, and she'd had a room set up for us. I started to think it was some sick joke, but then she launched into this whole tirade about some plot to blow up the Ministry, and Parliament Square along with it. At first I thought she'd gone completely dotty." He stopped to draw breath; even talking was a chore.

"So you _didn't_ know what it was about?"

"Well," he said, "like I said, at first I thought she'd gone off her rocker. And then I remembered hearing Blaise arguing with his brother about it at some soirée his mother had cooked up to celebrate Louis' betrothal."

"Louis?" repeated Hermione.

"Blaise and Edmund's younger brother," Malfoy explained. "He's set to marry Iris Parkinson."

"Pansy's cousin."

"Indeed," he answered, and then chuckled. "That poor bastard."

"What's wrong with Iris?"

"Oh, nothing," Malfoy replied. "That is, if you don't mind your wife messing about behind your back at all times of day and night. She's not very discreet about it, either. It's one thing to have an affair. Nobody cares about that; _every_ Pureblood couple has partners on the side. But _multiple_ affairs and _airing_ that dirty laundry in public. . . ." He managed a weak whistle. "And Louis isn't known for being the type to share. He doesn't like Iris, and she can shag who she wants while they're engaged; but when those vows are said, and he puts that ring on her finger. . . ." Malfoy looked back at Hermione. "Let's just say, the next poor sod to bed Iris probably won't make it past the wards alive."

Hermione nodded, not sure which party was more deserving of her pity. "So, Blaise and Edmund were arguing at their mother's soirée about this plot?"

"I can't imagine what else it might have been," Malfoy said calmly. "You have to understand, Granger, Blaise and Edmund are about as close as brothers come. They're two extremely different creatures, and that comes with having two different fathers, but they're as close as it gets. Blaise is the more level-headed of the two. He may not like the way the Ministry's going, with these new pro-Muggleborn policies, but he's not about to blow it up and throw our society into chaos. Edmund, on the other hand. . .he's what you might call an anarchist."

"So this is exactly the type of thing he'd do?" Hermione clarified, not liking the twisting feeling in her gut.

"Oh, yes," Malfoy said coolly. "And he's got the brains to pull it off. Anyhow, from what I could tell, he'd asked Blaise his advice; what would Blaise do if such-and-such a situation arose, that sort of thing. Blaise more or less told him he wouldn't be stupid enough to have been in the middle of something that led to those circumstances in the first place. Well, you can imagine how much Edmund didn't like that."

Hermione nodded, thinking of all the times Harry and Ron had disagreed over the years. "Yeah, I think I can imagine that pretty well."

Malfoy took a breath. "Then you can probably imagine what went down: He accused Blaise of not caring about the wizarding world, anymore. Said he'd gone soft, betrayed their family values, virtually everything short of calling him a blood traitor. He wouldn't go that far, I don't think. That would lead to a Wizard's Duel, and Edmund knows that if it came to it, Blaise could kill him. It would probably kill Blaise, but he'd do it. It's a matter of honour."

"Whatever happened to being close?" Hermione prompted.

Malfoy looked at her funny for a long moment, and then understanding seemed to dawn on him. "Granger, how close do you think aristocrats are? This isn't your Muggle world, where everyone, rich and poor alike, are overly emotional and open about how they feel about things. Money runs governments, and governments run the world. It's a different reference for closeness than what you've had."

Clearly, Hermione thought. "Did they know you'd overheard them?"

He shook his head, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. "No. I stayed quiet, and Disillusioned myself before I snuck away. But when Astoria Mult mentioned Edmund, everything clicked. He'd been awfully chummy with Pansy at that party, but they looked quite serious. Intense discussions, and so on. I told Mult I knew what she was talking about, and I understood why she was suspicious, but I had nothing to do with it." He looked at Hermione then, his face almost pleading for her to understand. "Granger, I swear I have nothing to do with it."

She nodded, shifting in her seat so she wouldn't pat his arm. "I believe you, Malfoy." She gestured to the rest of him. "Clearly someone didn't want you leaving that room alive, though."

Malfoy groaned and made a movement that Hermione had to assume meant he wanted to punch something. "I was in the loo," he ground out. "I'd made up a tea, but there was something sticky on the cup. I went to wash it off, and probably just as well, or I'd be dead too. There was this god-awful explosion, it rocked the entire room, probably the whole floor. Mult had just enough time to yell my name, and then he hit her with an Avada. Had she not yelled for me, he probably wouldn't have known I was there."

"You got a good look at him?" Hermione said.

Draco nodded. "Yeah, except that he was a Hit-wizard. Any Hit-wizard worth his salt would have been Polyjuiced. I'm willing to bet you anything that what I saw wasn't the real man."

Hermione nodded, her hopes sinking. She ought to have thought of that. No Hit-wizard would want to be recognized, and certainly not by any surviving victims. "You obviously anticipated a healthy fight," she offered.

Draco shook his head. "I did my best to over-estimate him. Always over-estimate your opponent when surprised; every Auror knows that, Granger."

"It may have escaped your notice, Malfoy, but I'm not an Auror."

He smiled. "True. I thought you'd have known it anyway."

"What curse did you use?" Hermione asked, purposely ignoring the thinly veiled compliment.

"A Reducto," Malfoy said tiredly. Hermione winced. "The strongest I could muster. D'you mind if I have another drink?"

Hermione obliged, cradling Mafoy's head as gently as possible. He drank more than before, and it seemed to do him well. His eyes were much brighter, at least; Hermione briefly wondered what St. Mungo's staff put in their water. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "So. . .Reducto."

"Yes."

"The strongest I had. A Stunner wouldn't cut it, I thought. It took off a good chunk of his arm, so that'll be his blood on the wall by the door." Malfoy sighed. "And then he put one through the wall, I think trying to get me with debris. Of course, I _had_ anticipated he'd try to blow a hole through me, so I'd put up a shield charm. Not strong enough, though. Whoever he was, that was one helluva hex."

"You were hit anyway," Hermione said. It wasn't a question so much as a thought process.

Malfoy nodded. "Yup. I'm pretty sure there're still bits of wood stuck in somewhere. I gave him a nice Cutting Hex to the knee, though. Of course, he tried to hit me with an Exviscer, but I Silenced him in time. It was a non-verbal curse, so it wasn't as strong, but it still did a good bit of damage. I couldn't do much casting after that. Of course, with his arm and leg in the state they were in, he wasn't in much shape to be duelling either, and made off as quick as he could. He might have Apparated, but I don't know. I was a bit out of it, I think."

Hermione nodded. Those curses were no joke. "That's it? That's all you remember?"

He nodded. "Going to have a jolly good time proving it, aren't I, Granger?"

"Actually," she said, standing up, "you may not have to."

He frowned. "You're not planning to plead my case to Potter, are you?"

"As it happens, Malfoy," she said, "a man was killed in my office earlier."

His eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"Another Unspeakable who had the misfortune of overhearing what Zabini and the rest were planning."

"Sweet Merlin, you can't be serious."

Hermione nodded. "I think it was the same Hit-wizard who killed Astoria Mult, and we think he'll be out looking for Ron as well."

"The Weasel, too? You three really are in the thick of everything, aren't you?"

"I think it's a side-effect of being best friends with Harry," said Hermione. "Anyway, it's doubtful Ron heard anything, as he wasn't exactly down there for – ah, _professional_ reasons."

"I heard the story in The Prophet, Granger," said Malfoy wryly. "I know what happened. I hadn't realized his life was in danger, though."

"Yes," said Hermione. "Well, there you have it. I'll speak to Harry about setting you up with some protection; I don't think the odds are in your favour that our new favourite Hit-wizard will just let you walk away."

Malfoy chuckled. "Protection will only do so much, Granger. Unless someone else kills him, he'll get to me eventually. I don't exactly have a low profile."

Hermione had considered that. "We're going to do what we can to keep you from getting yourself killed, Malfoy, whatever that entails."

He frowned. "You're not thinking of doing something stupid, like changing my identity, are you? I don't think that's going to work."

Hermione shrugged. "You may be required to go completely underground, Malfoy."

He blanched. "Witness protection? Granger, don't be absurd. I'm a Malfoy! I've businesses that need tending!"

"Yes, Malfoy, you do. But you also have a life that needs saving, and, quite frankly, twenty-four-hour Auror security isn't going to cut it. Not with this. We don't know whose idea this was, why they're doing it, or who's funding them, and until we do, you'll still be a target. Wherever our Hit-wizard is now, he'll have told his bosses that you're in the know. They'll want your head on a silver platter!"

"They'd probably want it on gold, actually," he mused.

"Malfoy!"

"Granger, just because Slytherin colours are green and silver, does not mean that silver is a Pureblood's favourite metal. We are _aristocrats_, remember. We _prefer_ gold."

She rolled her eyes. "The point is, you may be required to go into some kind of programme to hide yourself from your newfound friend. You need to be ready to do what is necessary, do you understand?"

Malfoy didn't look remotely pleased with the suggestion, but he nodded. "Fine. I'll go along nicely."

Hermione shuffled her feet. "It might not come to that, but it probably will. I just think you ought to know."

He nodded, looking away. "Yeah, I know."

Hermione stood there awkwardly, not quite sure how to end the conversation. "I'll – er, call your Healer."

"He'll be right outside," said Malfoy sullenly. "He has to be during interviews, just in case."

Hermione hesitated, and then went to the door, poking her head outside. Sure enough, there was Clifton. He and Harry seemed to be having some sort of desperate staring competition. There was no indication as to who was winning, and Hermione didn't particularly care. She cleared her throat, and they both snapped to attention.

"Miss Granger?"

"I'm finished with Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you ought to check him once more?"

The Healer nodded, going in as Hermione went out. Harry had resumed his stance of folded arms and petulant frown. "Got what you needed?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and I've got loads to tell you, Harry."


	3. 3 - The First Monkeywrench

**_Hi, guys! Sorry for the long wait, but my life became a shit-storm for a couple weeks there, and I had to put this on hold. At any rate, here it is. I think it's a bit longer than the other chapters, but I'm not entirely sure. I don't feel inclined to check. _  
**

**_I would like to confirm to anyone who might be suspicious, that I AM, in fact, actually American, but I'm doing my pathetic best to make this as Briton as possible. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and I'm pretty sure we all can see the general-that-way-direction this is going. _**

**_PLEASE review and let me know what you think. Should I fix something, should I leave it be, is there a grammatical error, etc. etc. Shoot me a review, or PM me and let me know.  
_**

**Chapter 3 - The First Monkeywrench  
**

"You mean to tell me," said Harry slowly, "that we're going to have to interview _Blaise Zabini_ about an incident in the Department of Mysteries?"

Harry and Hermione were safely ensconced in his office, wards strengthened to the max, and their wands within reach. . .just in case. It wasn't a situation Hermione savoured: The last time they'd had to live like this they'd been running from Lord Voldemort. Granted they weren't sharing a tent now, but then it had been safer. There was a guarantee that they would have each other's backs, come what may. Now, though, Hermione lived alone, and Harry had moved in with Ginny. As attractive as not being alone while an assassin was on the loose was, it didn't seem likely to be feasible. She couldn't very well just _move_ to the burrow and expect that to be the end of it. No, it was best to be a big girl and cover her own arse. . .and call Harry when she was frightened for her life.

"I'm not saying we _have_ to do anything about him, Harry. Hell, it isn't even my job," she replied, wrapping her hands around a mug of hot tea. "I'm _saying_ Malfoy said that he heard Edmund Zabini discussing it with Blaise, and I've concluded that if anyone can tell us something worth knowing about this case, it's going to be Blaise because Edmund probably wouldn't talk."

"He will if we give him Veritaserum," said Harry darkly.

"True enough," said Hermione. "It seems likely, though, that he's not going to be here. Word will have already gotten out about Draco having fought the Hit-wizard, and you can bet that Parkinson, Zabini, and that lot have all gone underground. If there were a chance I'd be brought in for questioning on a terrorist plot, I wouldn't stick around either."

Harry leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. "Zabini's mother wouldn't speak to us," he said thoughtfully.

"Not if she's interested in keeping her son out of our reach, and considering whose close friend she was during the War, that is a very astute observation." Hermione rubbed her eyes. "We need to figure out a plan for Draco, Harry," she said.

He groaned. "Why?"

"You wouldn't be here without his wand, remember," Hermione said forcefully. "Come on, Harry, you can't just ignore him."

Harry wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at the bin. "I couldn't, anyway," he said. "Rixby would have my job."

Hermione nearly groaned. Janet Rixby was their stand-in Minister of Magic while Kingsley Shacklebolt was underground working with the American Ministry, and she'd been doing her noble best to keep Harry as much under her thumb as much as Kingsley did not. Kingsley didn't interfere with Harry doing his job, likely, Hermione mused, because he knew that she would harangue Harry about things that no one else would. Rixby didn't approve, and she had let Harry know as much as soon as Kingsley was out of range.

Harry and Hermione being Harry and Hermione, they mostly ignored her. The memos were constant, and meetings almost daily, but met the bare minimum of her requirements and kept their noses to their duties.

"Okay," she said. "Let's pretend that horrible woman doesn't exist for two minutes. Let's pretend that Kingsley hasn't left to talk to Americans yet. I'm pretty sure you'd still be required to give Draco some sort of protection, and rather quickly."

"I've given him protection, haven't I?" Harry challenged. "What more does he want? Two Aurors standing outside his room at all times, they check what the Healers are giving him. How much more – "

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "he needs to disappear. He needs to fall _off_ the Hit-wizard's radar. Putting him under Auror protection – even 'round the clock – isn't going to do that."

"Witness protection," Harry said thoughtfully. "You really think it's necessary?"

"Do I pull witness protection out of my hat all the time?"

Harry put his feet down and leaned forward. "No." He rubbed the back of his head. "Bollocks. Fine, I'll see what I can do. But not just anyone is going to be willing to take Malfoy."

Hermione's watch chimed, reminding her that she had to return home and feed Crookshanks. She got to her feet, setting the mug on Harry's desk. "Harry, it doesn't matter who you put him with, just put him with someone who isn't going to kill him, and who isn't going to automatically assume that he's still a Death Eater." She paused, wriggling into her jacket. It was nearing Christmas, and she didn't fancy being caught without it, even with the ability to Apparate. "That should actually narrow the list for you."

Harry nodded gloomily. "Yeah, that'll narrow the list by a lot. Any ideas."

She shook her head. "No. I have to go home and feed Crooks. I'll send you a text if I get any ideas."

Harry chuckled. "I really hope Rixby doesn't know how to bug phones as well."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Considering it's Muggle, I don't know if she'd know it exists."

"You get a new one yet?"

Hermione sighed. "My mum sent me that one. . .the new one from Apple. That iPhone. I feel old using it."

Harry laughed. "Old?"

She shrugged, pulling on her gloves. "You know. It's a touch-screen, and there's all this new stuff, and apps, and I'm not sure I can keep up with it. I mean, I can use it, but if they come out with another something like this, I don't know what I'll do."

Harry reached for her mug. "That's technology for you."

"That doesn't help me, Harry, but thanks."

"If it makes you feel better," he said, "loads of people are probably trying to figure it out. It _is_ the first phone of its kind, you know."

Hermione nodded, wrapping her scarf. "Yeah, I do know. Doesn't mean I enjoy it."

Harry threw up his hands. "It's 2007, Hermione!" he said. "Get with the times!"

Hermione snorted, opening the door. "I'm as 'with the times' as I want to be, thank you very much, Harry Potter. If I have to be any more 'with the times', I may be sick."

Harry waved her off. "You know, it's not a bad phone."

"You got one, too?"

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "Ginny gave it me for my birthday. Apparently it was a good chunk of her pay."

Hermione huffed. "You see, _this_ is why I wait for the new models to come out. Then the old models are cheaper."

"Why would you do that?" Harry said, bemused. "You'd be behind everyone else."

"And yet, I'd still have more money in the bank," she quipped.

Harry grinned. "True, that. See you tomorrow, 'Mione."

She smiled and waltzed through the door. "See you, Harry. Don't forget that list."

He waived her off. "I'll work on it now. Good night."

"Night-night."

It was incredibly late to be at the Ministry, and the halls were nearly empty, but Hermione didn't mind the solitary walk. Even ten years after the War had ended, people still gawked when the saw her in the corridors. After the day she'd had she wasn't keen on having to deal with it. First one assassination, then a second, and then Draco Malfoy landing in the hospital; he'd _have_ to go off the grid. Whoever was behind this plot was guaranteed to want him dead, and if they did nothing. . . .

Hermione hadn't been deaf to the nearly silent footsteps following her, and when she rounded the corner into the Foyer, she quickly whispered a Disillusionment Charm, and cast a Silencing Spell on her shoes. Confident that the spell would hold, Hermione ran to the far end of the Foyer, to the last fireplace, turning at the very last second to look behind her. A figure had come into view, and was looking about shrewdly. It wasn't anyone she recognized, and it certainly wasn't the figure of Arthur Stein.

The fellow had drawn his wand, and was beginning to wave it in the pattern that Hermione knew would be Hominum Revelio. Not willing to take any chances, she shot off a Stunner, and dove into the fireplace, thinking of The Leaky Cauldron. Just as she was about to spin into the ashes, she saw her stalker's body, spread-eagled in mid air. Next thing, she was spinning to a stop out of the fireplace of the old pub. Tom, who was even more doubled over than he had been when she'd first come at age eleven, looked equally surprised and pleased to see her.

"Bless me, Hermione Granger!" he said. The grin was almost completely toothless, but contagious all the same, even if Hermione returned it weakly.

"Sorry for the sudden appearance, Tom. I had to make a quick exit. D'you mind if I Apparate from here?"

Tom had always been pleasant to Hermione, never concerned with her Muggleborn status. He waved off her apology. "Not at all, not at all. Have a good evening, Miss Granger."

Hermione returned the platitude, and turning on the spot, appeared in her own home with a loud CRACK! It frightened Crookshanks off the sofa. He gave Hermione a reproachful glare. She could only shrug. "I was being followed, Crooks."

His ears twitched forward, as though to say he understood, but still didn't forgive her. Hermione could only smile and scratch behind his ears. After a moment of quick reflection, she waved her wand, her otter swimming out the end. It exchanged a look with Hermione, and then took off immediately, disappearing from view in record time. Hermione reasoned that she had been lucky; Harry, as talented as he was at sensing trouble, might not be so aware if he were going to pull another all-nighter at the office.

Having resupplied Crooks' bowl with food, and worn her carpet thin with pacing, Hermione sank down on the sofa, thinking hard about their situation. A plot to send the Ministry sky-high was one thing; to blow up the Palace of Westminster as well. . . that was insanity. Wizards could survive without a Ministry of Magic. They were a British minority, and if worst came to worst, they could default to being regular British subjects while the Ministry sorted itself. The wizarding society of Great Britain, however, did not encompass the world, and it could not understand the extended reach of the British Government.

Most wizards wouldn't be able to function under a Muggle government. They'd never lived under one, they wouldn't know where to begin when the time came to address their problems. The British government, likewise, wouldn't know how to deal with their new wizarding population. There were enough problems for them now, but to have to explain to their Muggle people why there were strange people in the street, waving sticks and chanting funny words. . . . It was worse than a nightmare because they wouldn't be able to wake up. _Persecution of wizards all over again. We'd be doomed._

Somebody knew that, she realized. Not only did they know it, they were counting on it. Whoever was behind this plan knew that Muggles wouldn't be able to understand magic, and would try, once again, to stamp it out. Simply being born a certain way wouldn't be good enough for the Muggles. They were still struggling to accept the fact that gays and lesbians existed as their neighbors. Witches, wizards, and magical creatures would simply be too much. And as much control as trained wizards had of their magic, it wasn't quite something that could stand against the rapid-fire weaponry that the Muggles had invented. Harry had experimented: A simple Shield Charm wouldn't be enough to stop a hail of bullets.

Hermione picked up her wand and cast tempus. Why hadn't Harry replied? Was he all right? How long had it taken for her stalker to recover? He might have immediately gone to Harry's office, but Hermione wasn't sure that was the case. She waved her wand again; another Patronus, this time to Kingsley. She didn't know if what was happening with the Americans could wait, but he _had_ to know about this. Seeing that Rixby was a milder version of Dolores Umbridge, this plot would _require_ Kingsley's cool-headed sensibilities, and Rixby would withhold any and all information until they had been good and fucked. Rixby would likely fall apart at the first sign she'd lost control, and they simply couldn't afford that. Not when so many lives were on the line. Not when there was an incident of this scale about to occur.

She was sure, if Kingsley replied, that his answer would be to go about hunting this person down, a job he would likely assign to Hermione given how crap Harry was at research, and the fact that Ron was being watched over by his family. Hermione bit back a smile. Even with an assassin on the loose, Ron would probably be safer with his family than anywhere else in the world. Perhaps Hogwarts, but they couldn't very well send him _there_, not in the middle of a school year. There was no assassin in the world more dangerous than Bellatrix Lestrange, and given that Molly had well and truly destroyed her at the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron would probably be all right.

She twirled the thin piece of vinewood in her hands, thinking. She had sent Harry the patronus over an hour ago, and _still_ there was no word back from him. Not that it was unusual for him, but given that she had been tracked through the Ministry corridors, she wanted to be sure Harry was all right. Hermione got up and crossed to her fireplace, putting her hand in the jar of Floo powder, weighing the pros and cons of fire-calling Ginny. Was Harry home yet? Was he still at the Ministry? Was he fighting for his life while she, Hermione, was safely ensconced at home?

She made up her mind, and was about to throw the powder into the Floo, when a bright, silvery stag came bounding into her room. It pranced a moment, and then Harry's voice came out of its mouth:

"I got your notice. You did the right thing going home. He came after me; right nasty piece of work, but I got him. He's been in the holding cells for the last hour, so this is just a bit late. I had to fire-call Rixby, and she's a bit pissed off that you called Kingsley." There was a pause, and Hermione could hear the grin in Harry's voice. "Good girl. On another note, Kingsley thinks you should check on Malfoy at St. Mungo's. He doesn't want to take the chance that we're dealing with only one Hit-wizard, and not a team of them. And don't you dare think about calling Ginny, Hermione Granger. She's up enough nights as it is taking care of James."

Hermione smiled as the form of the stag faded; typical Harry to put Ginny's health before his own. Not that Ron hadn't when they'd been a couple, but it was different. Ron was made of a different type of material than Hermione wanted, and that was okay. It simply meant that he'd be better off with someone else. Someone _not_ Hermione. So they'd gone their separate ways; it didn't help Hermione to be less jealous of Ginny, though. She and Ron had been single for a little over five years, and she'd been surprised that he hadn't found someone else yet. It was a relief to know, Hermione thought, that they didn't have to worry about a significant other falling prey to their friend the assassin.

She shot off another Patronus to Harry, scolding him for making her worry, and congratulating him on surviving the inconvenience that was Janet Rixby. Checking that her wards were secured and one or two lights had been left on, Hermione Apparated out into the little alleyway across from St. Mungo's. Wasting no time, she marched across the dark street, and sauntered through the door. The receptionist at the desk squeaked when she saw Hermione, but the older witch was on a mission, and simply didn't have time for platitudes or mundane conversation. In less than five minutes she was on the fourth floor, marching towards Draco Malfoy's room.

Healer Clifton was just closing the door tightly behind him, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Miss Granger!" he said. "Back so soon?"

"I've been sent by Minister Shacklebolt to look after Mr. Malfoy."

The Healer frowned. "I thought the Minister was in America."

Hermione shrugged. "Those were my orders, Healer."

The man frowned, looking troubled. "It appears that this is – well, it seems a very tense situation if the Minister has left the Americans so early."

Hermione eyed the Healer sharply. "I can't divulge details, Healer Clifton. I just need to get in with Mr. Malfoy."

For a moment she thought the orange-haired Healer would object, but he nodded once and stood aside to allow her entrance. "Very well. His condition is steadily improving, I am happy to say. He should be back on his feet in almost no time at all."

Hermione tried not to look relieved to hear it. "That's very good, yes." She pulled back the curtains to the sight of a somewhat petulant Draco Malfoy. He was playing a form of solitaire, and the fierce glare he was projecting at his cards was now being projected onto Hermione and his Healer. "Well, gee, don't look so happy to see me, Malfoy."

"I've just had a letter from Azkaban," he said angrily. "I'm allowed to be annoyed, Granger."

From his father, then. "Oh. I see."

He snorted, and continued sorting the cards.

Hermione stood awkwardly with the Healer for a moment; after an exchanged look, the orange-haired man left, and Hermione was alone with her former arch-nemesis once again. He didn't look up from his cards. "So. . . ."

He didn't answer.

"Clifton says you're getting better."

No answer.

"Kingsley's been called away from the Americans to deal with the situation."

Still no answer.

"For the love of Merlin, Malfoy!"

He didn't reply, just kept sorting the cards.

Hermione huffed and dropped her bag down on the small tray-table in front of him. Malfoy paused, darkened his scowl even more, and then glared up at Hermione. "Fuck you, Granger."

Had she done something? "No, thanks, I'd rather not," she retorted.

Malfoy picked up the bag and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor. Before he could put another card down, Hermione had scattered his deck. "The hell is wrong with you, Granger?!"

"I could ask you the same thing," she retorted. "What exactly is your problem?"

"I'm in a bad mood, Granger."

"So that gives you license to treat me like shit?"

He shrugged. "I feel like it does."

She flicked the top of his nose. "I'm here to protect your arse," she said warningly. "Don't make me regret listening to Kingsley."

"I can't _make_ you do anything, Granger," Malfoy retorted snidely. "_I've tried_."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, not _this again_." This couldn't be why he was upset, surely.

"_Again?_" Malfoy repeated. "What '_again_'? There was no _once_, Granger. There can't be an _again_ if there wasn't a _once_ to come before it."

"I suppose it was in your letter from Azkaban, was it?" she challenged.

Malfoy's mouth snapped shut, and he glared at her for a long moment. "That has nothing to do with you," he said coldly.

"Then I'll thank you not to be pissy with me," Hermione said evenly.

"Why are you here so late?" Classic change of subject for a Malfoy, and while Hermione would normally ignore the bait, she reasoned that if the letter was really so awful, perhaps a discussion of the time was what he needed to take his mind off it.

"Kingsley sent me," she said. "He wants to make sure you're watched by someone other than Aurors."

Malfoy snorted. "I'd have thought that he'd be happy to let the Aurors loaf about."

"Much as Harry's tried to change it, Aurors can still be bought," said Hermione darkly. "Combined with the fact that you were unwittingly admitted into one of the most explosive cases MLE has had to deal with _ever_, Kingsley will want you to be protected. He'll probably set someone up to watch your mother as well."

Malfoy nodded absently, readjusting his cards. "Dammit, Granger," he muttered. "Have to start all over again."

Hermione watched Malfoy a moment, and then said, "Harry will probably have you moved at some point in the next couple of weeks."

Malfoy looked up at her. "You're not going to let him do something stupid, like put me a witness protection, are you?"

Hermione blinked. "Malfoy, we may have no other option."

"I don't _want_ that, Granger," he said loudly. "I'd rather fight the fucker off by myself if it means – "

" – getting yourself killed?" Hermione interrupted smoothly, her voice hard.

"I will _not_ let some assassin bully me into cowardice," Malfoy snapped heatedly.

"It's not about cowardice," Hermione said. "It's about surviving. Malfoy, you _have_ to stay alive, and this Hit-wizard will come after you until one or both of you are dead."

"I doubt many people would notice, Granger," he said sullenly.

_I would_. "Your mother would," she said softly.

"My mother is _one_ person, Granger."

"She's still your mother," she said. "That should count for something. And I'm sure your friends would miss you."

Malfoy snorted again. "I don't have _friends_, Granger. I've never had _friends_. I've had bootlickers and hangers-on. Never _friends_."

Hermione frowned as she sank into a chair, not a little hurt. "What are we, Malfoy, if not friends?"

He had been reorganising his cards, and now he stopped in his movements. "What do you mean?" he said slowly, his voice barely audible.

Hermione tried not to sigh. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I simply find it hard to believe that you've never had a friend."

"You think we're friends?" he clarified, his tone daring her to answer in the affirmative.

"I think we're as close to being friends as we're ever likely to get," she replied, "but, yes, I do think of us as friends." At his incredulous look she folded her arms. "Close your mouth, Malfoy; we are not a codfish."

"What are you saying, Granger?" he said slowly.

"I simply think you're being dramatic."

"I'm being dramatic?" he retorted. "_I'm_ being dramatic? _Me_? I'm sorry, whose best friend tried to lock me up for a week because he thought I had _ill intentions_ towards his best mate's girl? Who was it tried to drown me in a mud-puddle for walking into his mother on a crowded street in Hogsmeade, and _who_ was it decked me when I told her she looked nice in an evening gown?"

"You were drunk and leering," Hermione shot back defensively.

"You tried to throw me off my own balcony!"

"You tried to feel me up!"

"I was drunk!"

"And that makes me wonder what other behavioural problems you've repressed."

Malfoy threw his cards down on the small tray-table. "Granger, that's not the point."

"No," she replied, "it isn't. The point is – "

A knock resounded on the door, and Hermione turned, eyeing it thoughtfully. She pulled out her wand cautiously, and threw up an identifying charm. Golden words formed into the name _Kingsley Shacklebolt Harry Potter_. Breathing a sigh of relief, Hermione crossed to the door and opened it wide. She couldn't suppress the grin at seeing Kingsley; he was dressed _just_ like a Muggle, and it was quite splendid.

"It's good to see _you_," she said.

Kingsley smiled. "Been keeping an eye on things for me, Hermione?"

She gave a lopsided shrug as she stood to let the two men into the room. "I try. There's just a tiny problem that keeps interfering."

Kingsley nodded. "You'll have to trust me about Rixby, Hermione."

"I trust you about her," she said defensively. "I just don't trust _her_."

"Yeah," said Harry, giving the Aurors a sharp nod and closing the door. "She's a bit of a bitch."

Hermione bit back what would have been an unladylike snort. "Harry, don't be crude," she chided gently.

"You're crude all the time, Granger," said Malfoy loudly. His face was a bit petulant at having to share attention, but he'd get over it.

"I am _not_ crude," she retorted. "I simply know how to toe the line between expressive and downright rude."

Harry rolled his eyes. "The point is, we don't like Rixby, and she makes our jobs a living hell."

Kingsley gave the two of them a tired glance, and then turned to the patient on the bed. "How are you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, brilliant," the blonde retorted. "Just corking."

Kingsley pretended not to hear the rudeness in his voice. "Oh good. We'll move you tonight, then."

"Tonight?" Hermione looked to Harry. "Tonight?"

"Yeah, apparently there's more to this than we anticipated," he said. "It's a whole team of Hit-wizards, not just one. They'll be looking for Malfoy now."

"Do we know who's behind it?" Harry shook his head. "Nope. Just that it's someone very wealthy, and now they want Malfoy dead."

"Well, shit," the blonde said, spewing cards all over the room. "That could be anyone."

"It could," agreed the Minister. "It could be a stranger, it could be someone you know."

"The possibilities are limitless, yes," Malfoy sneered. "Where are you going with this, Minister?"

Shacklebolt shrugged. "All right, we'll get to the point. We've set up a witness protection scheme for you, Mr. Malfoy. You'll be going under the radar tonight."

Malfoy looked like he'd been smartly rapped 'round the head. "I'm sorry, I think I must have heard you wrong."

"I'm quite sure you didn't," Kingsley replied, one eyebrow arching. "You'll be going under the radar tonight. We've arranged to make it look as though your injuries were too much. There will be a funeral next weekend, and the word will be put out to your mother and father, as well as your friends." Hermione almost snorted, remembering what Malfoy had said about friends.

The young man in question looked like he was going to be sick. "And what of my businesses?"

"We've arranged it," said Kingsley. "Don't worry, you'll still have the final say in everything. We're simply going to forward it to Miss Granger."

Hermione suddenly didn't like where this was going. "Why?"

"So you can pass it along to Mr. Malfoy," said Kingsley promptly.

"Why?"

"Because he's going to be living with you."

If silence were glass it would have shattered in that room.

"He WHAT?"

"I WILL NOT!"

Their voices each drowned the other out, and Harry cringed at the noise. "For fuck's sake, Hermione. It was your idea," he said.

"I said we should put him in witness protection, not that he should live with _me_," she countered.

"You two get on fine, don't you?" he said.

"That's not the point," Hermione said. "I have rules about where I live, and he can't just break them. Magic falls under those rules."

"Thanks, Granger," 'he' retorted.

"There will be no negotiation, Hermione," said Kingsley, his tone carrying a note of finality. "He will live with you, and once this whole ordeal is over, he can resurface, and you'll probably never have to hear from him again." He held up a hand to silence her protestations. "However, you do raise an interesting point about the magic."

Malfoy suddenly looked wary. "What about it?" he said.

"While you are in protection, Mr. Malfoy, there will be no magic of any kind."

Wariness turned to sick. "No magic?"

"None," replied Kingsley. "Nada. Zilch. Niet. The Hit-wizards will track your magic back to you, and they'll kill you there. And believe me, they're looking for you. I've spoken to Healer Clifton, and while he wasn't happy about it, he's agreed to let you go." Kingsley pulled out a small bottle-cap from his pocket, and handed it over to Hermione. "Let him dress and collect whatever possessions he's got here," he instructed. Hermione turned the cap over in her hand, nodding thoughtfully. "That'll take you back to your house. You can trip it when you're ready; the password is _forelle_. All your work will be forwarded to your home."

"Won't the Hit-wizards become suspicious of that?" she asked.

Kingsley smirked. "I'm having Rixby put out notice of your suspension in the _Prophet_ tomorrow. I feel certain they will take the bait."

Hermione nodded again, smiling. Her opposition to Rixby was well-known throughout the Wizarding World. Hermione didn't usually have a problem with authority, except when that authority was quite stupid and couldn't tell shit from Shinola. "I find it ironic that your passcode is 'fish'," she said. She looked at Harry, who just looked confused. "That's what it means," she explained. "It's 'fish' in German."

Harry blinked. "Okay." He turned to the door. "I'll go wait with the lads." He paused to hug Hermione, nodded to Kingsley, ignored Malfoy, and slipped through the door quietly.

Kingsley turned to Malfoy. "I expect you'll be on your best behaviour, Mr. Malfoy. I doubt she'd put her wand aside, but Hermione doesn't need magic to give you a proper slap around the face."

Malfoy rubbed his cheek. "I know," he muttered.

"Good," said Kingsley. "Now, up, and dressed, and then you leave, Hermione. Don't dawdle for a goodbye. I'm sure Harry will come by to check you soon."

There was no arguing, there were no protests. Draco Malfoy was going to live with Hermione Granger, and that was going to be that.

**_Let's be real, you ALL saw that coming. It couldn't have been any more obvious than if I had put it in the first chapter. Actually, I COULD have, but that's not my style, and it just seemed so rushed. _  
**

**_"Because discovering a plot to cripple two national governments in the first chapter isn't rushed," you might say sarcastically.  
_**

**_"Eh," I'd respond. "You have a fair point. I just wasn't interested in delving into the back story before I . . . . delve into the back story." And I think I've made it fairly obvious for everyone that there IS a back story. Probably not an interesting one, but it's there.  
_**

**_Anyway, REVIEW!  
_**


	4. 4 - A Small Problem

**_Hello, there! _  
_Don't look at me like that. I had a lot of things to do, and I DID warn you all that I wouldn't be updating this as often as any of us might like. I tried to make it extra long, but I don't know if I accomplished that properly. _  
**

**_I'm not very pleased with it, but given how much time I've already spent on it, it seemed silly to waste any more. If you see something you don't understand, if you have a question, or if you think you might have an idea of what is happening, drop me a line, and we'll banter over it. Or you can just sit there in your office chair at work and brood, but that might make you moody, and I'm sure your colleagues won't appreciate that.  
_**

**_Enjoy and review!  
_**

**Chapter 4**

This had all escalated _very_ quickly; much more so than Hermione had anticipated, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Malfoy was supposed to be put with _someone else_ – i.e. _someone not her_. Did Kingsley agree? Of course not. "Here, Granger, you take the sodding Pureblood, and we'll discuss how you two _won't_ kill each other at a later date." Seriously? How, exactly, did he expect this to work? They were on completely opposite ends of the spectrum, both in birth and in tastes, not to mention the fact that they were both easily riled to fury.

This was such a bad idea, Hermione thought she might be sick.

The first night had passed without much in the way of remarkability, aside from the fact that Crooks wouldn't have touched Malfoy with a ten-foot pole. Not that Malfoy was much concerned. He was still heavily injured, and the portkey hadn't done his system any favours. Hermione had had to replace some of the bandages that Clifton had added earlier, as the wounds were opened again, and Malfoy hadn't been pleased. She used a few of the healing spells she knew, and then added bandages and anti-septic to the areas.

"Going to take even longer now," the blonde muttered through her ministrations.

"Oh, stop whingeing," she snapped softly. "You'll be right as rain in a couple of days. Nothing to worry about."

Malfoy had snorted ungracefully, but said nothing more. The Sleeping Draught she'd put in his drink was probably in order of thanks for that.

Now, here she was, at 8:00 the rainy next morning, nursing her fifth cup of tea. She'd not slept at all. She'd barely managed to stay in the same chair. It took multiple reminders for Hermione to sit tightly and stare at the kitchen floor; she was actively not allowing herself to strengthen the wards any more. She'd be lucky if her newspaper and work files found their way to her, she didn't need to chance it with oxygen.

She had added food to Crooks' bowl a little early, and he had given her a worried stare. At least, it felt like he did. Feeding Crooks at 7:30, instead of 8:30, was a bit out of character and Crooks knew her well enough to know that when things didn't run on schedule there was something amiss.

Hermione didn't know why she couldn't sleep, she just knew she couldn't. Something in her mind was going rather quickly 'round and 'round the tracks, and she hadn't been able to stop it long enough to identify what it was. Her stress levels were so high that Occlumency was far beyond able to work, and she was beginning to consider pulling a Ginny, and downing some very strong sleeping medication.

There was a sudden tapping at the window, and Hermione gave a small shriek and nearly fell out of her chair. She looked about wildly, relieved when she found it was the usual owl who delivered her morning paper. He also had a rather bulky package tied to his feet, and Hermione felt her forehead crease. She opened the window, catching the wet bird as he fell inside. From the corner of her eye she saw Crooks lick his chops greedily.

"No, Crooks," she said tiredly. "No owls."

The Kneazle cat fluffed his fur and stalked away snootily, his bottle-brush tail high in the air. Hermione turned to the owl in question. "Thirsty?" she asked. He hooted feebly, and Hermione fetched Crooks' water bowl. While the owl guzzled the liquid, Hermione untied the package and the paper from his feet, surprised that he'd been able to bring the whole load on his own. "You can rest for a bit until you're ready to fly," she said, stroking his dampened feathers. "I'll leave the window for you." The bird hooted again, and nipped Hermione's finger in thanks, before plunging its beak back into the water.

Hermione set the paper aside, not really interested in it for the moment. The package was a much more important detail. It contained all the files Hermione was going to need on this case, and it probably held some very colourful information on Draco Malfoy. She plopped down in her chair again, flipping open the front of the folder thoughtfully. A small piece of folded paper fell out of the front page and onto her lap. She picked it up thoughtfully. It read in Harry's distinct scrawl.

_Hermione:_

_Kingsley and I felt you should have all the information possible on this case. _

_Attached are the respective files of Parkinson, Zabini, Didalgo, and Rutsin. Everything is there, from school records, to medical history, to criminal activities. All known contacts have been added. Be careful, as it's quite a haul. I've got my own copy, and I imagine it'll take even you ages to get through. I added Malfoy's file, just in case something corresponds. It might get us a lead._

_Don't let Malfoy see __any__ of this, understand? And for Merlin's sake, don't tell him you have it._

_Be safe, and good luck._

_Harry_

Hermione looked back down at the folder, only now realising just what was in it. She had to get through all _this_? That was absurd! Just her luck there would be a deadline. It occurred to her, then, that she'd neglected to ask Sam for a particular date of attack. That could be her deadline. If only it weren't soon. She looked up at the calendar tacked to her wall.

December the fifth.

Hermione looked back at the folder in front of her. Mayhap more information was within the confines of this piece of shit. She pulled out Parkinson's file, and settled down for a good long read, feeling, if anything, completely uninspired, and rather tired.

Parkinson's photo was attached, but Hermione paid it no mind. She was interested in the data, in the history. The girl's grades had been decent, and not terribly poor, save for Arithmancy (Hermione often wondered why Parkinson had been in that class). She'd gotten E's on all her O.W.L.s and had scored mostly A's in her N.E.W.T.s. None of this surprised Hermione; Parkinson was wealthy. She wouldn't be expected to earn a living like the rest of them.

She flipped a page, her eyelids growing weary.

Parkinson's history with Malfoy had ended rather badly, then. Badly enough that it landed on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ seven years ago. A quick glance over the paper told Hermione that it had been the night Malfoy had tried to stick his tongue down her throat. The paper stated quite simply that _"Miss Parkinson had seen Mr. Malfoy with another woman, rumoured to be War Hero, Hermione Granger, and felt that it was the final betrayal in her already rocky relationship with the young billionaire."_

Hermione frowned at that, Accioing a red Sharpie and circling the word _billionaire_ and connecting it with another circle she drew around Malfoy's name. How many other billionaires did Draco Malfoy know, and how well were they all connected? Would he have, at any point in time, given the names of these contacts to a one Edmund Zabini? Or had he given them to Parkinson? Had _he_ utilised them?

Hermione filed those questions away for later as she dug deeper into the stack of information. Her eyelids were growing heavier. Before she knew it, Hermione's head had dropped onto the counter, her breathing had become even, and she was dead to the world at large.

She awoke to voice calling her name. At first Hermione resolved to ignore it, because even as uncomfortable as she was, sitting here with her eyes closed was vastly more comfortable than getting up to tend Harry, or Ron, or whoever the hell it was calling her name in such a pathetic form.

"Granger!"

Since when had the boys called her by her surname?

Hermione remembered suddenly, and shot up from the table so suddenly, she knocked over her chair and crashed to the floor. Not bothering to pick it up, she scrambled to her feet, and made her way to the guest bedroom, peering in the opened door. Malfoy was laying on the bed, looking very weak and _very_ pale, even more so than usual.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you all right?"

"Never mind about me, what's wrong?"

"I heard something fall over. . . ."

"When?"

"Just now, Granger," he said, rolling his eyes. "What happened?"

"Never mind. I fell over."

"What'd you fall over for?"

"Fuck's sake, Malfoy, I didn't do it on purpose!"

He paused, his brow creasing. "Are you all right?"

"Says the invalid," Hermione retorted.

He bristled. "Not funny, Granger."

"Who's laughing?" she quipped. "Clearly not me." When he just scowled at her she huffed. "What's wrong, Malfoy?"

"I ache," he whimpered.

Hermione bit back a laugh. Malfoy could be tough when it was required of him, but he – like every other man she'd ever known – was a complete and utter wimp when it came to pain and sickness. "Hang on, I'll get a potion."

"Please hurry," he groaned.

Hermione only hurried a little; a touch of pain wouldn't kill him, and it would serve him right for everything he'd done to her in the last half-decade. As she made her way back to his bedroom, she stole a glance at the clock: 11:00; she'd probably need to feed Malfoy as well. Something light so as not to upset his system too much. Maybe she'd get lucky and be able to slip him some extra Sleeping Draught, if she hadn't used it all.

Hermione slipped back into the bedroom, and helped the weakened wizard sit up just enough. He managed to help hold the potion bottle steady, draining the contents desperately. It hit his system quickly, and Malfoy sighed with relief, allowing himself to slouch against Hermione.

"Thanks, Granger," he said in a low voice.

"Don't mention it," she said. "Ever. Harry would have my head if he thought I was being nice to you."

Malfoy managed to crane his neck to look up at her. "Isn't it part of your job?" he said cheekily. "You _are_ my home nurse, after all."

Hermione snorted, pushing him back onto the mattress gently. "My job is to find who's trying to kill you and destroy the country, Malfoy. Home nurse is the negligible part of that contract."

The Malfoy weakly chuckled. "Good luck with that, Granger," he said. "Loads of people have wanted me dead since the Third War ended, and I promise they all have the proper currency to carry through on this plot."

"If you could give me a few names, that'd be nice," Hermione retorted. "Help me narrow it down a bit."

Malfoy shrugged. "I'd need a pen and some paper for that, Granger. It's rather a long list."

"If you write it down you'll have to highlight it the most likely enemies for me."

He shrugged again. "Fine by me."

Hermione hesitated, and then went in search of pen and paper. She wasn't about to give him a quill and inkwell, and she was pretty sure all her parchment had gone last night to drawing up a web of cases leading back to a potential culprit. A gel-ink pen was readily available from a coffee mug next to the telephone, as was a fluorescent flow-pen, and Hermione was practically skating back to the bedroom. This would make her life _so_ much easier. . .she hoped.

She helped Malfoy sit up, and gently plopped the notebook and pens onto his lap. He looked at them, utterly bemused.

"Granger, what the hell is this?"

"Paper and pens," she said simply, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He looked at her from beneath his eyebrows, his face incredulous. "This," he said, holding it up, "is not a pen. Granger, I don't know what Muggles have taught you to use, but this is not a pen."

Hermione put her hand over his, clicking the end of the object in question. The nib came out the end, stained deep blue, ready and waiting. "I promise, Malfoy, it's a pen."

He held up the flow-pen. "I suppose this is as well?"

"It's for marking important things. It's got fluorescent ink inside it."

"Fluresent?"

"Fluorescent," she confirmed. "The ink glows under UV-A light."

"You-what?"

Hermione sighed: This was going to be a _long_ stay. "It's a type of lamb bulb whose glass has been out of a certain type of glass that filter the light in just such a way that it only allows the light nearest the short-range spectrum to pass through it. Understand?"

Malfoy just stared at her.

She slumped a little bit. "I thought you mightn't."

"So it only shows up under a special light?"

"No." The Muggle Studies course needed some _serious_ work. "The ink itself is visible, but because it is of a fluorescent colour, because of the chemicals used in the ink, it _can_ show up under a UV-A light." Malfoy looked like he still didn't understand, so Hermione brought his hand to the notepad, touching the pen to the paper. "The names, please, Malfoy?"

He dubiously made a mark with the pen, and sat in stunned silence when ink blotted the page. After a moment he shrugged, carefully writing out the names of each aristocrat who might possibly be interested in offing him. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said it was a long list. He'd gotten to a total of thirty-two names before Hermione got bored and went into the other room. Malfoy paid her no mind, intent as he was on this 'small' task. Apparently Malfoys didn't take attempted murder very well.

Thirty-two possible names?

That was just the beginning of it, Hermione felt sure. _Thirty-two names?_ It was heresy. Who the hell could be such a pain in the arse that they'd collect _thirty-two_ nemeses, each angry enough to attempt to do them in?

Malfoys, of course. Who else?

Hermione meandered tiredly back into the kitchen, righting the chair and sinking into her vacated seat. She glared at the folder in front of her, silently cursing the numerous files she would have to work through if there was to be any reportable progress to Harry. She could wait for the highlighted names, of course, but God only knew how long _that_ would take Malfoy. Hell, he could be at it all night. Likely he was maintaining that the threat could have come from the continent; Hermione didn't know how many families could front the money for such an expedition against the state, but she was pretty sure there weren't thirty-two of them in Wizarding Britain.

Reaching out, Hermione flipped another page in Pansy Parkinson's file. It was a criminal report the length of Hermione's arm, and it consisted mostly of harm done to Muggles. Apparently there had been a small stint in Azkaban of which Hermione hadn't been even close to aware. There were documents from her trial before the Wizengamot, and there was even, attached by Sticking Spell to the inside of the file, small-scale plans detailing what would be an attempt to blow up the Minister of Magic's house using Muggle bombs. It had been unsuccessful, obviously, and it couldn't be proved that Parkinson was in any way connected, which meant that Harry had personally collected the information in these files. Ministry workers wouldn't have included this.

Hermione remembered hearing about it, albeit briefly. Harry had been incensed, pissed off like nothing else that Parkinson was being allowed to walk. Hermione hadn't been all that thrilled either, but had tried to reassure Harry that, as an Unspeakable, they'd be able to keep close eye on Pansy Parkinson. She didn't know how effective they'd be at stopping this plot, but she was damn well making certain that Parkinson didn't get off for it this time. Ron was, to be blunt, quite useless to the case, but that didn't make him any less important; Hermione vowed silently to herself to treat this case as though the deadline was in the next twenty-four hours. The more on alert and on edge she was about it, the higher the likelihood she would catch the perpetrators. . .she hoped.

There was more skimming through Parkinson's file, and then she laid it aside to pick up the next one, bearing the name _Zabini, Edmund_. Hermione flicked it open, and cringed. There were two images clipped to the file: One was the standard Ministry employee portrait featuring a young man with mildly darkened skin and extremely fine features. Were it not for the angled cheekbones and the glittering eyes, Hermione wouldn't have pegged him for Zabini's brother. His black hair hung in wavy curls about his head, making his eyes seem sunken and his cheeks hollow. His nose was just slightly hooked, and his mouth was thin and almost unnoticeable.

That hadn't been what made Hermione cringe, much as she might have wished it. The second photograph attached was much more scarring. It showed Edmund Zabini, attired in Azkaban rags, wrapped in chains and staring into the magical camera. His eyes didn't waver, even though the extreme cold seemed to be shaking the rest of him. In this photograph he was starved, nearly beyond recognition, and he had apparently been beaten quite harshly, as blood was seeping through the clothes, and marks were visible on his chest. Hermione swallowed hard, and turned the photograph over, feeling that, just maybe, she understood why Edmund was so determined to see this plan through, and wreak carnage on the general public.

Just as in Parkinson's file, she found a his school record: Outstandings on all his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, and even a large P next to his fifth, sixth, and seventh year marks, meaning he'd been a prefect. Hermione almost groaned. She did so hate it when the subjects under scrutiny were clever, and apparently cleverer than she. If it came down to a wand battle, there was a good possibility that Zabini would overpower her. Parkinson was so easy a duel it was laughable, and while she'd never seen, let alone heard, of Rutsin or Didalgo's duelling prowess, she concluded that Zabini was the head of their gang, and he should be her main concern.

Maybe she was looking too hard at Malfoy's past. Maybe it hadn't been a foreign wizard who'd ordered the hit. Mayhap Zabini had contracted out their Hit-wizards. If that were really the case (and she hoped it wasn't, because she really didn't fancy a showdown just yet), their answers could be solved then and there. Excepting, of course, for the one tiny little hiccough of a flaw in her brilliant hypothesis.

Zabini was a younger son. He had no money. He couldn't just tap his family's reservoir of wealth to contact wands-for-hire. That meant that the money was coming from elsewhere.

Reaching for Parkinson's file again, Hermione flipped to the bank statement: Parkinson had even less to her name than Ronald did, and that was saying something. She dropped the file, and dug through Mary Rutsin's file: She was just barely making ends meet, and glance at Didalgo's Gringotts account stated that he had a total of ten Sickles to his name. Nothing had been added, and nothing had been withdrawn from any of them over the last year.

Were they living hand-to-mouth?

Perhaps they were simply preparing to fly under the radar. It was certainly the case now. They'd all fallen off the face of the map since last Monday.

A throaty call for, "Granger!" caught Hermione's attention, and she turned her head towards the kitchen door. After a moment of staring absently into space, Hermione stood up and made her way to the guest room. Malfoy was staring at his list apprehensively, as though having second thoughts.

"You called?"

"This is a bad idea," he said, his voice somewhat drained.

"Probably the most honest thing you've ever said in your life," she replied dryly.

Malfoy looked up at her. "Don't _even_ start that again."

"Don't start what again?"

"Don't start bitching about how I lied to you, Granger."

"I wasn't."

"You were going to."

"I'm your home nurse, may I remind you," she said coolly. "If I want to start bitching about something, I'm damn well going to bitch about it, and you aren't going to stop me."

He glared. "This list is a bad idea," he repeated.

"How much access would Edmund Zabini have to his family's vault?"

"None," said Malfoy, looking puzzled. "Why?"

"Just curious." She held out her hand. "Shall we have a look?"

He hesitated, looking down at the list a moment longer before handing it over. "Mind _you_ don't question them, Granger. Pureblood supremacy and all that."

She curled her lip. "Lovely. So, not only are we looking for a megalomaniac, but we have to get past bigoted arseholes as well. Could my day get any better?"

Malfoy suddenly looked pensive. "Er – well, I was – ah, wondering if maybe anything had – come for me?"

Hermione frowned. "No. Why?"

He seemed to hesitate, but then went for it. "I wanted to. . .well, I wanted to send off a letter to the chairman; suggest some changes to the way things are run."

Hermione blinked, and then turned. "Accio _Daily Prophet_." The paper dutifully came zooming into the room. Hermione glanced at it, and then turned to Malfoy, letting the bottom drop so he got a full view of the front page news:

**DRACO MALFOY SUCCUMBS TO WOUNDS**

**Dies in early morning hours**

**Memorial still to be determined**

"Tell me, Malfoy, exactly how you're going to go about explaining your sudden _not_ death to the Chairman of the Board."

The blonde wizard just stared for a long moment at the paper. "Well, Shacklebolt doesn't waste any time, does he?" he said wryly. "Granger, I can disguise my writing well enough, and if you put a little charm on the note, they'll never know it was from me. Hell, they'll probably think it came from Mother."

Hermione sighed, thinking hard about this. "It seems like this has a lot of potential to be a really bad idea, and I don't think you should follow through with it."

Malfoy hissed through his teeth. "_Please_, Granger!"

She huffed. _Oh, what could it hurt, really?_

"Fine. Fine. But this is not to become regular."

_Oh, bollocks. You know it will. You know he'll ask, and you know you'll cave, just like you have done every other time._

She tore off the list and passed the notebook back to the blonde boy. "Be quick, all right."

He was ready to set the pen to paper, and then looked up again. "Are you going to read it when I'm finished?"

She snorted. "No, Malfoy. Much as we collectively don't trust you, I'm not planning to read your mail any time soon."

"That's. . .slightly less comforting than I thought it would be," said Malfoy, his voice distant. He grinned then. "You're Gryffindor, though. You won't go back on your word."

"Do not abuse my trust, Malfoy," Hermione warned.

He looked contrite immediately. "I would never do that. Not to _you_, Granger."

Hermione huffed. "Yes, you would. Let's not pretend otherwise, Malfoy." She meandered back into the kitchen, glancing over the list just for a moment. She'd have to owl this to Harry immediately for their files, if the Ministry had them. After considering her next move for a moment, Hermione flipped shut the folders on the table, and tucked them under her arm.

Making her way through a sparsely decorated sitting room (she'd only had the house for a month or so) and into her study, Hermione looked about carefully. This was the room she spent the most time in, and therefore it was the most well decorated, rather reminiscent of the Hogwarts library, though about a hundred times smaller. There, next to a window, clutching his perch, was Pilot, her tawny, and rather unimaginatively named owl. When he saw the list in her hand, the hoot he let out was more reminiscent of a sigh.

"I know," Hermione replied, crossing to her desk. "I know it's rainy, but you've got to get this to Harry quick as you can." She scrawled a quick missive, rolling it up rather tightly with the list, and tying it together. She crossed to Pilot. "Get this to Harry, and then get back as quick as you can. Malfoy's got something he needs delivered as well." The owl glared at her, as though he had a say in this process. "Please? I'll have extra treats for you when you get back, and I'll even throw in some hot cider and sausages." Pilot ruffled his feathers, and then, quite reluctantly, stuck out his foot. "Thank you, Pilot. You're a wonderful, wonderful bird."

The owl gave her a look which, she imagined, would probably have been a cocked eyebrow if he were a human, and waited patiently for her to open the window. Hooting his displeasure at the situation once more, Pilot launched himself from the sill, quickly becoming lost in the rainy clouds.

It was another hour before Pilot made his way back to the house, and by that time Hermione had collapsed at her desk, and was snoozing away soundly. Thus, when Pilot nipped his mistress' ear to alert her as to his return, he was nearly clocked for his trouble. Hermione looked about wildly, suddenly seeing her owl.

"I'm sorry!"

Pilot merely hooted and flapped to his perch, turning from her to face the rain. Hermione got up tiredly, closing the window. "You know, you can't pretend to ignore me for very long. Malfoy's got that message he needs delivered as well." Pilot fluffed his wings, and Hermione stroked his feathers gently. "You can have the cider and sausages when you get back," she promised. "You can rest up for a bit, but you'll need to take that message soon." There was no response, and Hermione made her way to her bedroom. She needed sleep, and she needed it now.

* * *

**Somewhere in the countryside**

Edmund Zabini had crashed quite hard on his sofa in the wee hours of the morning, his lanky figure stretched out over the dingy fabric, and he wasn't pleased to have awoken at this moment. It had been a long and extremely hard night of running and ducking Ministry personnel, which would have been a hell of a lot easier had fucking Harry Potter not been in the mix. Twice Potter had apprehended him, and twice had Edmund just barely escaped with his life. Potter felt the Weasley twit's life was threatened, and now there would be Hell for Edmund to pay.

Weasley was nowhere near the threat Parkinson seemed to think he was, Edmund knew it. He'd not been in the Department of Mysteries to spy on them, and he certainly hadn't overheard their conversation. Rutsin, Didalgo, and Parkinson, however, were all completely paranoid. If the fly on the wall had been Granger, however, they'd all be having a very different conversation. Granger was a much more dangerous enemy than Potter and Weasley combined, mostly because she was so damn brilliant.

A loud pecking interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up at the offensive creature making the din. It was an owl of some sort, Parkinson's by the look of it, and it appeared to have a message clutched in its beak. Edmund stared at it, still in a tired daze, and then slowly scrambled to his feet, stumbling towards the window. He opened it just wide enough for his hand, and the owl obediently dropped the message, taking off again like a whisper.

Cursing softly to himself, he unrolled the clenched note, his eyes narrowing as he read the missive scrawled in Parkinson's semi-neat hand:

_Watch Granger._


	5. 5 - Spiderwebs

_**Okay, yes, I know I suck. I promise, I didn't do this on purpose. I've just been busy applying for jobs and looking for relatively cheap accommodation in Maryland. As it is, here is a new chapter. I hope it is appropriately long and nice for you, and I promise I will do what I can to update sooner and more often. **_

_**Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Your reviews (though sometimes limited to one word, which isn't helpful) are very pleasant to read. If you spot any inconsistencies, or any flaws in the format or spelling, please let me know. I strive for perfection.  
~AI**_

**Chapter 5**

**December 8th**

Hermione didn't think she'd ever been so exhausted in her life. Not only was her research into Malfoy's wealthy counterparts proving unsuccessful, there had been no sign whatsoever of Parkinson, Zabini, or the others since Ron's fateful day in the Department of Mysteries. Rutsin and Didalgo's files were scant on information, and Hermione was beginning to wonder if their identities hadn't been manufactured. There was no record of Hogwarts attendance, their files in the Ministry only extended to the last three years, and their qualifications to work as Unspeakables weren't anywhere to be found in the files. Only one photograph for either of them, their addresses had been marked by Harry as _No Longer Occupied_, and no criminal history accompanied their names.

Hermione slouched, chewing on her thumbnail.

After brief consideration, she snatched up her wand and shot a Patronus to Harry. There was a good chance that Kevin Didalgo and Mary Rutsin were an old set of hands that the Ministry had been chasing a good while. If that were the case, Harry would want them in cuffs and without wands as soon as was humanly possible.

_But how would they find them?_

Setting aside the files for the two mysterious persons, Hermione shifted her attention back to Parkinson and Zabini, cross-checking their known associates. There had to be at least _one_ person that both Purebloods knew, and if she couldn't match them up they were left picking at straws. Picking up Malfoy's list, and laying it side-by-side with Zabini and Parkinson's associates records, she began her cross-checking. Many of them were familiar, if only because their families had been more than prominent on the continent, both as wizards and Muggles.

_Habsburg _

_Bullinger_

_Malfattore_

_Bonaparté_

_Habsburg-Lorraine_

_Holtzmann. . ._German for Woodsman. Hermione frowned; it wasn't the most interesting surname, and she wouldn't be surprised if the family were on the shallow end of the Pureblood money pool. However, Malfoy had listed them as being a family who might come after him, and Hermione knew from experience that taking down a Malfoy required money, and lots of it.

_Fleischer. . ._German surname meaning 'butcher'. That was hardly helpful, and it didn't go anywhere near indictment.

_Vielleschateau – _French for 'old castle'. It seemed to intone some extremely old money, so Hermione marked it as a question.

_Orleans_

_Diminué_

_Wollstone_

_Gaylord_

_Harskarinna (Sweden)_ Oh, like she needed help with that.

_Min'or (Bulgaria)_

_Krum _Hermione blinked. Krum? As in Victor? There might be more than one Krum family. . .but then there might not be. She couldn't vouch for everyone Victor might be related to; that would be impossible. Families were simply too extensive, particularly old families.

_Diamant (South Africa)_ She hadn't realized there were Purebloods in South Africa. Perhaps they'd made the trek with the Dutch. . . .

_Moordenaars (South Africa)_

_Slange (Namibia)_

_Mkimbiaji (Kenya)_

_Ordenanza_

_Gagnon_

_Clarence_

_Bucharov_

_Rothschild_

_Ulcers (also spelled Unger)_

_Osborne_

_Mensajero (Spain)_

_Pássaro_

_Esquadrin (Portuguese)_

_Furete_

_Delacroix_

_Fortescue_

_Faucher_

_Moller_

_Ostergaard_

_Dahl_

_Vestergaard_

_Daskalov (Bulgarian)_

_Guillory_

_Fuerst._ German for 'prince'. Might they be connected to Snape? It wasn't likely, as 'Prince' didn't seem to be an Anglicised piece of German. Still worth a look, though.

_Richter_. A German surname meaning 'judge'. Again, hardly an indictment.

_Dewin._ A Welsh surname, meaning 'wizard'. She'd heard of them: Older than the Malfoys, the Zabinis, even the Malfattores. They were a family reaching back to when the Romans had first tried to conquer Wales under Publius Ostorius Scapula, possibly even older.

Hermione shook her head at Malfoy's numbers, and began to examine the names on Zabini's list. If she could link them, she could unravel the spider-web. If she did it right, they'd never see it coming. Almost immediately one popped in front of her: _Ostergaard_. Quickly she scanned Parkinson's file: The name was there. Hermione marked it, and carried on. Most of Zabini's associates were Italian, and Parkinson's were nearly all British. All the same, any lead was a good one. Another name popped out at her: _Vielleschateau_, present on both lists.

So the French were interested in expanding their boundaries were they?

"Dammit, Granger, stop getting over-excited," Hermione scolded herself. "Association is not an adequate indictment, stop acting like a Law Fresher."

Scanning. . . .

Scanning. . . .

Scanning. . . .

_Malfattore_

Hermione shivered. She'd been hoping she wouldn't find that name, particularly on Zabini's list. This wasn't a wizarding family she relished challenging.

_Rothschild_ came rearing off the page next, as well as _Habsburg_. "Not good." All of them powerful families, and while their Muggle relatives might not all be on the up and up, Hermione was more than aware of just how much wealth the wizarding families retained. She slumped back in her chair, a posture that was highly unusual for Hermione. The last time she had slumped had been when she'd realized she'd have to wipe her parents' memories in order to protect them from the Third War.

Calling Pilot from her study, Hermione scribbled a note to Harry and attached it to the owl's leg. "Make sure you give this _just_ to Harry, understand?" Pilot nipped her affectionately, and hopped to the open window to be let out, taking to the sky as soon as the light breeze from outside ruffled his feathers.

Scraping back her chair from the table, Hermione made her way to the guest room. She'd have to speak to Malfoy about these people, and maybe treading on a bit of softer ground. Of course, they all thought he was dead now, so it was perhaps a moot point in context. Still, it couldn't hurt. Knocking to alert him of her presence, she cracked the door and poked her head inside, double-taking when she saw him.

A towel was wrapped firmly around Malfoy's waist, and he was horizontal to the floor, intent on his press-ups. The injuries on his torso looked to be scarring up quite nicely, and his platinum hair was wet with sweat. He looked to be in pain, prompting Hermione to say:

"Exactly _what_ are you doing?"

Startled, Malfoy dropped to the floor, wincing at the impact. "Don't you knock, Granger?"

"I did," she said curtly. "What are you doing?"

"Press-ups, obviously," he retorted.

"You've not properly recovered!"

"Assassins don't wait around for people to recover," he sniped.

"They do when the entire world thinks said people are dead," Hermione countered.

"What do you want, Granger?"

"We need to chat."

"Is that not what we're doing now?"

"About your list," she clarified, and her tone wiped the annoyed look off his face.

"What about it?"

"Malfoy, there are forty-two names on that list."

"Yes, Granger, I'm aware. I wrote them all down." He struggled to right himself, attempting access to the bed. Hermione stepped forward, but he waved her off. "No," he huffed. "I can do this."

"You're going to hurt yourself even more," she retorted.

"No, it's all right," he panted. "I've got this." Puffing, he did finally manage to crawl up onto the mattress, rolling over to face the ceiling breathing heavily. "What about the names?"

"You put the Malfattore family on it, for starters."

"Yes."

"And the Habsburgs."

"Yes."

"And the Rothschilds."

"Indeed."

"Not to mention the Bonapartes."

"Where is this going, Granger?"

"They have Muggle ties!" she snapped angrily.

"What d'you want me to do about it?" he retorted.

"Could you maybe, I dunno, _not_ piss off every powerful family in Europe?"

"We lost a war they were hoping we'd bring to the continent, Granger," he said wryly. "They're pissed off at everyone who was joined with the Dark Lord."

"And they'd take revenge on you ten years after it's all died down?"

"Clearly it hasn't all died down, Granger, as someone is trying to destroy both Wizarding and Muggle Britain." He shrugged. "I won't pretend to know their inner workings, but I can tell you that the Malfattores don't like not getting their way. It's probably a thing with powerful Italian families."

"It doesn't help that they're a branch of the Medicis."

"Or the Borgias," he replied smugly.

Hermione let off a string of expletives, making Malfoy smile.

"Oh, Granger, I do love it when you become flustered."

"Shut up," she snapped, reaching for the door. "I have to find a way to solve a mess that _you_ probably made."

"Now hang on just a minute," he protested. "Why are you assuming _I_ made this mess?"

"It saves time," Hermione said, snapping the door shut behind her.

_Damn_, were they in trouble. If there was one thing in the world Hermione hated more than a bureaucracy, it was clashing horns with, and investigating, powerful families. There were always agents out spying for them, which meant that all of this had to be kept close to the vest; she wasn't positive if even Harry could know about it. He meant well, but she couldn't put his integrity on the line by asking him to vouch for every member of the Auror force. Vouching for the Aurors extended to their friends, and Harry couldn't possibly be expected to be responsible for the poor choice in acquaintances on the part of his Aurors. He was the boss, not the department's collective mother.

She would have to conduct investigations and interrogations on her own.

"You can't interrogate any of them yourself, you know that, don't you, Granger?"

Hermione whipped around. "What the hell are you doing out of the guest room?!"

"I know that look," Malfoy said, ignoring her sharp demand. "You're thinking of going solo on this, and it's just not a good idea."

"Why is that?"

"Please don't punch me for saying it, Granger, but you're a _Mud. Blood._" He said it slowly, as though speaking to a child. "They have no respect for you or your family, and much less for your abilities and intellect. They don't care that you're cleverer than any one of them on any given day. You're nothing to them, and they won't co-operate with you."

Hermione felt herself droop. "What am I supposed to do, Malfoy?"

"Get Potter to do it?"

"The Boy Who Lived? The boy who fought to keep the war off the continent? The boy who defeated Voldemort" Malfoy flinched, and surreptitiously rubbed his left forearm against the towel around his waist "and kept Europe's most powerful families from running all out of check? That Potter?"

"At least we know we're both talking about the same person," said Malfoy uncomfortably.

"They won't co-operate for him either, Malfoy!"

"They will more so than they will for you," he said patiently. "Isn't that our objective, to succeed in uncovering who is behind the plot?"

"I could care less about who is behind it, Malfoy," Hermione scowled. "I'm more interested in _how_ they're planning to blow two governments sky high."

The look on Malfoy's face was inscrutable. It seemed as though he were having mixed feelings on the subject: Surprise, curiosity, bemusement, and anger seemed to be chiefly present.

"How can you not care?"

"At this point in the investigation," Hermione said coldly, "the identity of the person in question is relevant only to the point that they are apprehended. Their motives become relevant when the time comes that we build a case against them. I probably won't be allowed to prosecute, as I'm heading up the research on the case, but that's not exactly the point."

Now Malfoy simply looked stunned. "You are not the Hermione Granger I used to know. . . ." he said softly, letting his voice trail.

"This Hermione Granger's home has been threatened," she snapped. "And if me defending my home is a bit out of your comfort zone, then you can find somebody else to take you."

Malfoy staggered to the sofa, and sat down. "Bring Potter here and give him my list. Doubtless you found corresponding titles in Zabini and Parkinson's files. He'll have to look at all of them, though. It could be someone not on the list."

Hermione rubbed her temples. "Malfoy, we're talking about hundreds of names, hundreds of known associates."

"True enough."

"You listed some of the most powerful people in Europe, if not the world!"

"Some of them," he agreed. "But those people I listed are, by no means, the most powerful."

"You're kidding."

"I never 'kid' about these things, Granger," he said, crooking his fingers at the word 'kid'.

"Probably a good thing, as we don't have that kind of time."

"Did you find a date?"

"No – " she began to say, but Malfoy cut her off.

"These people are anarchists," he said firmly. "They'll want to take _every_ state representative, Head or otherwise. We're most likely looking at mid-June."

"How do you know?"

Malfoy huffed. "Granger, you clearly need sleep, if you've not yet thought of this."

"You're in on the plot?" she retorted. He was right, though. She hadn't slept much, and her body was begging her to stop and rest.

"Very funny, Granger," he said tiredly. "Stop and get some rest. Let me do something – "

"No," she said firmly. "No. You're not to get involved with this."

"Granger, I don't know if anyone's told you, but their Hit-Wizard tried to kill me," Malfoy said, his tone annoyed. "I'm already involved in this, even if I don't want to be."

"Harry said that you were to keep your distance."

"Of course he did," was the reply. Malfoy's mouth was turning up into a sardonic sneer. "I'd forgotten that your loyalty to the Boy Wonder came before common sense."

"He has a point, Malfoy!"

"He does not!" The shout seemed to drain the blonde man even more than physical activity did. Maybe it was just the build up of stress. "I didn't ask for any of this to happen, Granger. Did your Boy Wonder ever consider that?"

"I'm sure he did," Hermione said. "But the reality of the matter is, Malfoy, that he just doesn't trust you. You can't hold a grudge against him for that."

"The hell I can't!"

"You've not exactly done anything to put yourself into his good books."

"You agreed to help me recover," he said. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Not much, as far as Harry's concerned," she said. "In his mind, it's just a thing I have. You're not to touch anything on this case."

Malfoy hissed through his teeth. "Fine. I won't touch anything. But you've not slept in thirty-two hours."

Hermione had been trying to disguise that fact, but there wasn't much working in her favour; coffee only went so far. "I will admit you have a point. I will go to sleep, but _only_ if you agree to wake me in the three hours."

Malfoy crossed his arms. "Eight."

"Eight?"

"Eight."

"Don't be absurd!"

"Eight," said Malfoy. "Or I'll drug you and work your case for you, Potter's preference be damned."

Hermione chewed her lip. "Five hours."

"Eight," Malfoy countered.

"There's not the time for me to sleep that long!"

"Perhaps you should have thought of that when you decided not to take breaks between files."

"Malfoy – !"

"Stop arguing it, Granger!" he barked, and pointed sharply in the direction of her bedroom. "Go."

Hermione couldn't help feeling just a little bit petulant, but did as he commanded. He was right anyway. She'd been up far too long, and her body was starting to lose itself. She should have retired after 18 hours, as it would have given her brain the chance to revive itself; she might have missed some very crucial details due to her lack of sleep.

Malfoy was certainly right, she thought, collapsing onto the bed. She would be able to function at a much more efficient rate when she'd gotten the proper sleep. The softness of the mattress, and the depth of her pillows were perhaps the strongest attack she'd ever had in her life. No amount of Defence training could keep her awake now.

It seemed like five minutes, and then suddenly there was a knock on the door. Hermione opened her eyes, groaning. "Are you serious?" she called. "Right now?"

"Granger, come quick!" It was Malfoy, and he sounded rather imperious.

"Do I have to?" she replied.

"Yes!" he shrieked. "Quickly!" Footsteps pounded away from her door, fading away into the sitting room.

Perhaps something really was wrong with him?

She crawled out of bed and stumbled towards the door. "What is it?" she said, pulling it open. As soon as she had, though, she drew back in shock. Spiky graffiti covered her walls. On closer inspection she could see that it was really a Theory Web. Clumps of handwriting were attached to each other, the lines spreading and pointing in the direction of the sitting room.

"You found my Sharpie collection, didn't you?" she mumbled tiredly.

"What?" he called.

"Never mind," was her weak reply. This would take weeks to remove, and she couldn't even be sure why it had been created in the first place. Yawning, Hermione bent to examine a bit of handwriting on the wall. The letters were elegant enough, and read: _Covered Dark Lord's trail through Romania and Germany._

Another piece of the web was connected to it, and it read: _Fronted the cost for travel to Italy. Infiltrated Muggle Vatican._

Hermione frowned. "The Pope isn't a wizard, is he?" she called.

Malfoy's very confused and excited face poked around the corner. "Why would you think that?"

"You've got something here about infiltrating the Vatican?"

"Granger, I didn't do this."

Hermione turned to him, her face deadpan. "What are you talking about?"

"I went back to bed as well," he said seriously. "I woke up just a few minutes ago."

"You're saying someone broke into my house and left this for us to find?"

"It would seem so," he said, before disappearing back into the sitting room.

"That doesn't alarm you at all?" Hermione shouted after him.

"Do I find it alarming? Yes," Malfoy answered. "But as we're both still alive, and nothing seems to be missing, I'm not all that fussed over it."

"You have a very reassuring bedside manner, Malfoy," Hermione said dryly. She looked back to the wall, re-examining the web. "Whoever left this here did it on purpose."

"No, really?" said Malfoy from the sitting room. "I couldn't possibly have worked that out. You are one hell of a genius, Granger."

"Okay, thank you, Mister Smart-Arse," Hermione snapped. "The point is, it's a bit odd of someone to just break in and draw a Theory Web on my walls. Especially _my_ walls. Who the hell did this?"

"They didn't leave a note, Granger!"

"I gathered that, Malfoy!"

"Why are you asking such stupid questions?"

"I'm thinking, and you're interrupting. I swear to Merlin, if you speak again in the next half-hour, I will hex you!"

There was an obligatory silence, and Hermione was free to look at the wall again. There were two lines from each snippet of information, reaching back to one common point in the middle of her sitting room. A quick glance gave her all the information she needed: Next to the point was the name _Zabini_.

Shit. Had it been Edmund's job, or was it Blaise? Was it their mother? Likely not. Madame Zabini had never bothered herself with Hermione Granger; she probably didn't even know what country Hermione was in, let alone where she lived. Then, again, Hermione had been proven wrong before, usually by Harry.

A line extended from the Zabini surname to another point: _Wollstone_. Other lines extended from Wollstone: _Diminué, Gaylord,_ _Mensajero,_ and _Passaro_. Each one has connected by at least three other lines to individual tasks they had accomplished. Mensajero had been given a task yet to be completed: _Collect ore from the Territory of the Giants. Pass ore off to Diamant_.

Hermione remembered that name. Diamant had been the South African. She wasn't sure what his file would say, or what the ore was that he'd be working with, but she'd have to get Harry to look into it. Maybe she could convince one of the Weasleys to do it; it would be far less conspicuous to whatever powers behind the operation were watching them.

There was a line stretching from Wollstone to Harskarinna. The Swede. She should have expected him to be trouble. There was a small caption by his name: _Commissioned to train the werewolves. Camp made close to Arctic. Leader of Team Rouge._ That had to be complete hell, training a bunch of werewolves in the Arctic. With the scant wildlife they were probably more than usually dangerous.

"We have no idea who did this?" Hermione said sceptically, eyeing Malfoy.

"Why are you looking at me?"

"You forced me to go to bed," she pointed out.

"So, because I made you take your health into consideration, it's my fault there's a Theory Web all over your house?"

"Something like that, I think."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Fuck's sake, Granger, how do you get such credit?"

"Excuse me?!"

"You can't seriously hold me responsible for what some maniac was doing!"

Hermione stared at the _Zabini_ name stamped on the floor. "No one could have got past my wards," she said with finality.

"Obviously someone did," Malfoy countered.

"It had to be you."

It was his turn to be offended. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"No one else could get past my wards, not to mention Crooks, and Pilot would have had a field day with his eyes." She looked hard at the blond sitting across from her. "It was you, I know it."

"Granger, I wouldn't – "

"You're always doing things to sabotage me," she retorted. "Why should this be any different?"

"I don't know if you've noticed," he replied scathingly, "but my life has sort of been on the line the last few days. Why would I be sabotaging you?"

"So you're not actually trying to help; glad we cleared _that_ up, because, you know, _it's so out of character for you_."

Malfoy was shaking now. "Dammit, Granger! That's not the point!"

"It's my point."

"I'm not making myself a priority!"

"Could have fooled me!" Hermione sniped. "So, tell me: Why did you deface my house with a lot of useless information?"

"If I know nothing about this plot, how the hell could I have made a Theory Web?"

"It wouldn't be – " Hermione bit her tongue, catching the sentence. That was perhaps a bit too far. They were both in a bad temper, though for obviously different reasons.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Wouldn't be what?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

"Granger – "

"Forget it, Malfoy."

"Wouldn't be what, Granger?" He'd raised his voice ever so slightly.

Hermione set her jaw. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've lied, especially to me."

Malfoy looked a conflicted mix of wounded and infuriated. "How – " He stumbled into the leather chair, dropping ungracefully down on it. "I suppose thanks, Granger." His tone was bitingly caustic.

"It's not personal, Malfoy."

"Yes, it is," he said promptly. "Of course it is. You're not protecting me; you're watching me."

"Oh, stop being so misunderstood," Hermione snapped. "You have a record long as my arm for lying to people; an objective analysis calls your innocence into question."

Malfoy began running his fingers through his hair, and Hermione knew she had crossed a line: This was his ultimate distress signal.

"Granger, I'm trying to build – " He seemed to choke on his words, pulling at his platinum blond hair. "I'm trying to _re_build my reputation – start over . . . I – I can't though . . . If you don't believe me – _you_. Everything depends on – my success, my business, everything, is dependent on you. If you don't believe me, Potter never will, and then I'm fucked for life. Everything goes down hill." He pulled even more violently at his hair. "Nobody wants anything to play cards with a past, particularly a tarnished one."

Hermione couldn't help but feel this was all a little overly dramatic. "It doesn't depend on me," she said. "It depends on you."

Malfoy chuckled. "Apparently not," he snapped. "It all depends on the Chosen One, and the only way he'll change his mind is if you vouch for me, and if I can't make you believe anything, he never will. Ergo, I find myself dependent on you." He looked up at her. "I didn't do this, and I'm not involved in any plot to destroy the country. You might get further in your noble quest if you'd stop chasing rabbits and old vendettas."

Hermione sank down into the sofa. "It feels like we're chasing ghosts," she said.

Malfoy seemed to consider that, and nodded slowly. "Unlimited funding does that for terrorist groups."

"How would you know it's unlimited funding?"

Malfoy sighed. "Granger, whoever is behind this is obviously not pleased with how things are going in the UK. They're planning to blow up two governments at once, and they've got some of the most dangerous anarchists on the job. If their funding had dried up, I promise you'd have caught them by now. The kind of dedication being put to this means patience and lots of money."

Hermione looked about her sitting room, eyeing the lines that roped their way through her sitting room and down her hall. "So, you really have no clue who could possibly have created this?"

"Nope."

"So it's entirely likely none of it's true."

Malfoy seemed to hesitate. "I'm not so sure about that," he said, his tone somewhat evasive.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "each of these men has been set with a task that falls within his skills, or his line of work. It would be easy for these men to have access to these things."

"You're certain?"

Malfoy gave her a patronising smile. "Granger, there are very few rich people who don't know anything about other rich people. It's a giant circle of people who hate each other, but associate regularly because the thought of being around poor people is too painful."

Hermione scowled. "Of course it is. How silly of me not to think of it."

"You should," he said lightly. Apparently the small sign that she might believe him had left him quite happy. "Really, you're getting quite daft in your old age."

"Statistically, women live longer than men," she returned. "At least I get to be old."

Malfoy smirked, but didn't reply, electing instead to stare at the walls.

"I have to show this to Harry," Hermione said.

"Why?" He was suddenly defensive.

"It's relevant to the case, Malfoy. If I don't show Harry, it could seriously impede our investigation."

Malfoy nodded, his brow furrowed. "I suppose you have a point. When are you going to bring him?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Your boyfriend doesn't like me, Granger. I should make myself scarce."

Hermione huffed and tried not to roll her eyes. "And you think I'm daft," she muttered. "He's not my boyfriend, you twit. He's married with two children." She shrugged, then. "You are right about being scarce, though. He's still Harry, and you're still Malfoy. Nothing good can come of that."

Calling Pilot, she went to the kitchen and scribbled a note hastily. "I'll send this now, and he'll probably come within a few minutes."

Malfoy hauled himself out of the chair. "Then I'll be in your guest-room," he said, "making no noise, and pretending that I don't exist."


End file.
